


The Lonely City

by Bodyandsoulagenda



Series: All The Ugly And Wonderful Things [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Peter Parker, BDSM, Child Soldiers, Dark Peter Parker, Dom/sub, Domestic Avengers, Drug Abuse, Drug Dealing, F/F, F/M, Female Skip Westcott, Genius Peter Parker, Harley Keener is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Heavy Angst, I have no idea where I'm going with this story, I've decided to make him really confusing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Rape, Mood Swings, More characters added later, Multi, Other, Parent Peter Parker, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter Parker is confusing, Peter is a little petty, S.H.I.E.L.D Peter Parker, Shield can't either, The Law Can't Stop Peter Parker, inacurate use of science, more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-01-16 20:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21277445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodyandsoulagenda/pseuds/Bodyandsoulagenda
Summary: Set a year after the death of his aunt, uncle, and sister, Peter finds himself back where he started.Silenced by fear.





	1. Comparison is the killer of joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spidey," 
> 
> "What?"
> 
> "Will you do it?" 
> 
> "Why should I?" 
> 
> "I just spent an hour trying to make it clear why you should help me on this mission,"
> 
> "Not an hour, fifty-eight minutes, add the forty-two seconds where you caught your breath then started again to speak your 'conclusion' which lasted twelve minutes, where you just made a summary of your report. Now, I'd like to know why the likes of you would ask me for help, even though I've heard you've got a bit of pride to you," 
> 
> "Every man does,"
> 
> "I don't,"
> 
> Daredevil sighed. 
> 
> Besides the favors, they had been on many missions together too. 
> 
> This one wasn't. Daredevil just had a hunch and wanted Peter to help follow it. 
> 
> Some mind-controlling freak of some kind. Peter wasn't to keen on following this hunch, but Daredevil claimed the guy was doing damage of some kind, but he wouldn't tell him about it. 

Peter wasn't one to be called stupid, and he wasn't, but it happened when you were desperate, you happened to do stupid things. 

Calling Stephany was probably one of the most idiotic things he could have ever done. 

He still dreamt of Stephany. Only when he didn't dream of Teresa, and he started labeling the dreams he had of Stephany nightmares because they had him waking up in a panic and sweat, got him onto his knees, to get the bottles of whatever alcohol and cigarettes he had hidden under his bed hastily for a chance of distraction.

When he dreamt of his sister he woke up, but couldn't move. The mere thought of drinking or smoking brought shame, and he'd drink water only, once his bones started working again, and go on throughout his day unbearably sober, every one of his positive actions was only acted out, as he dissociated inside his body. 

The only thoughts that calmed him down, after a night of nightmares, were that of common sense: he no longer had to be associated with her. He no longer _was _associated with her. 

She wasn't apart of his life anymore, but after a lot of thinking, he wasn't sure why he didn't let her be. 

Okay. So, he has to look at it like this: before the entire "your dad is Tony Stark" thing, Peter was a celebrity. He was famous. People loved him. 

Because he was confident. 

Peter didn't care what people thought about him. If he was in a room full of strangers he'd adapt immediately. He owned the room when he entered it. And he still did. 

But here was the thing, this entire new family was _nothing _like his. He wouldn't call it stable, but it was more normal than the likes of his past families. It's easy to adapt to yes, but exhausting to be in. 

He can't stress this enough: he's exhausted. 

Ex-fucking-hausted. 

He's tired of the inside jokes he doesn't get. The realization that everything he had ever done because he was a "Parker" was a load of bullshit. Of Morgan Stark who reminded him so much of Teresa when she was younger that he avoided her at all costs. Of Harley Stark, who was as much of a snotty rich confident kid that everyone described him as. 

The home he now lived in was with a family, a family that had taken him in, him, a huge burden to Tony definitely who had wanted nothing to do with him, and for the first time in his life, Peter felt out of place. He never left his room, because being around the rest caused a pain in his chest that became unbearable after a while. He never had breakfast, lunch or dinner with them. He avoided their family and friends. 

There was nothing in the world that made him even want to be around them. So he invited friends over, had them stay in his room, and would only be around the others if he had someone of his own with him. Harry, Gwen, Liz, Cassidy, some models, billionaire/millionaire's children, etc. 

He didn't prioritize them, Harley, Tony, Morgan, or Pepper, any good excuse he had to not be around them he used, taking advantage of the fact he played too many sports, had school then night classes. 

No familiarity was there, he never let them predict him, never stayed happy for too long or content for too many days or serious or caring or mature. Never in a row, and he didn't make a pattern of it. 

The decorations in his room changed every day, and even though Teresa's books had been framed, Gwen's drawings, and the signed posters, he made sure they didn't believe he believed in sentiment. The look of surprise was always on their face when it came to him, and he was glad. 

So maybe there was Gwen and Harry there. Harry and Gwen who cared a lot about him, who he _considered_ family, but they had lives of their own, as did he. 

Stephany was the only familiar face that had to do anything with a family that he had left.

She was also the only person he hated. And she was all he had left. 

That fact got tiresome aswell. 

So that night came. 

Her on top of him. Her beating him. Her drawing blood with her teeth. Her kissing him. 

Except. He'd run out of alcohol. 

And cigarettes. 

That never happened. 

After his nap, he woke up. Five thirty in the afternoon, he listened to the sounds of his family outside and looked at the window, one that had a long thick seat flush beside it, a comfortable mattress on it, where Harry was laying down, also asleep. It was weird how similar their lifestyles were. Harry was just as tired at Peter, he was sure of it now. 

Sitting up, he let his feet fall to the floor before he got on his knees and reached under his bed, pulling the wooden box that held all of his essentials. When he took off the lids he reached in and grabbed the first things on top.

He paused. 

Peter stared at his hand and the empty bottles, and the empty cigarette boxes scattered around the floor, then he saw red, as he clenched his fists around one bottle and it smashed like a glass window on his palm. 

He wasn't angry about the empty objects. More about the realization of how dependent he'd become on them. 

Leaving a note for Harry, Peter moved slowly, he stood back up, pulled on appropriate clothes for the weather outside, before he grabbed his wallet and strutted out his room, snatching a pair of sunglasses on his way out as an afterthought. 

It was late, he shouldn't be going out, but Peter had missed the night strolls through Queens.

Tony and Pepper agreed it was way too dangerous to be strolling around Queens late, so Peter wasn't to go out like that anymore but Harley was in his room, Morgan was occupying Pepper and Tony's attention as a newborn, so they wouldn't know. 

He should have gone walking, through the rain if he needed to, then he probably would have not taken out his phone and called her. With the traffic, he would have gotten to store in a quicker time if he'd gone walking, Queens was only a few blocks away after all, but Pete felt that day, it was best he took a cab. 

Of course, he got to thinking. 

He thought about Teresa, and how ashamed she would have been if she were there, and then those thoughts formed, morphed, sculpted, etc. into something else and somehow he got it in his head that the only way for Teresa to forgive him, is if he reconnected with Stephany. 

They used to be good friends, Stephany and Teresa. May once commented on how they could have been sisters with how well they got along. Peter tried to notice whether or not that was true, but when Stephany was around, he became too distracted. 

A coward, to best, put it. And when you fear everything, you tend to forget you're surroundings as well. 

(Calling her, Peter would later realize, seemed to be the first raindrop before the storm.) 

There were so many things that he could have done in that cab ride. Just read the damn book he bought on the kindle app, but there he was, holding his phone up to his ear instead, listening to the ring. 

He thought _<strike>hoped</strike>_ that she'd changed her number. He hadn't, but he thought <strike>_hoped_</strike> that she'd deleted his. 

Stephany picked up on the third ring. The _click _was the sounds of the gates to hell opening and Peter sighed, forcing a smile as if Teresa were there to see it herself. 

"Hi?"

She spoke so softly, so... timidly, it took him by surprise. 

He wondered what happened to her beauty. He still saw her in magazines, but he knew she changed, looked different under the coverup makeup. She must have aged like fine wine within the year of distress. 

Her voice did. 

"Peter? Love-" her voice cracked, and he heard rustling, as she stood from where she was sitting, lay, or leaning "it's been so long," she sobbed. 

"Yes, sorry, it has, I'm so sorry,"

"So long," she repeated as if she hadn't heard him. 

What happened to her? 

When he saw her last, at that damn funeral, that day, it turned officially a year since it all happened, since they died, he's been there to watch her dress. Her face was broken, the tears smearing her make-up as she put on her clothes, the blotchiness of her face, Peter handed her her coat, then left without another word. No one was there to tell him to wait for her. He never wanted to. 

She'd loved Ben. She loved him so much, too much. She could have cared less about Teresa, and how she had suffered when she found out Ben would no longer be there to kiss her, and that Ben would no longer be there to force Peter to kiss her, to pretend to love her. 

It was a split second desition. He made it so impulsively, he laughed to himself before he even made it. 

"I'm coming over, give me half an hour," then he hung up. 

Like he'd said, he was exhausted. 

Keeping up a front for his new family was hard. His mental health was damaged more than ever now, according to his researches, and he needed comfort. It was selfish that he'd phoned up Stephany, and decided to worry about his state than hers. 

When he got to her home, he knocked on the door five times and heard her say "I'm coming," twice as many times as he knocked and listened to her scramble around the room, putting things away and fluffing the pillows. 

When she opened the door Peter saw a woman who had aged a thousand years just by looking into her eyes but also saw a young woman in her late twenties, radiant, and now with a ring on her finger.

The entire affair happened a month after Ben's death. Stephany married a semi-famous actor, and when Peter walked in, his assumptions were made clear, as he laid eyes on the said actor on the floor, a syringe sticking from between his toes. 

He stepped inside, left the bottle and pack of cigarettes on the table, then turned and looked at Stephany.

She was modestly dressed. She must have just canceled plans for dinner. Her hair was styled in a bun, curls framing her face, long dangling earrings on, and she had a v-neck white silk dress on. Her heels were the ones she wore for nights out. Peter knew. He remembered her coming over when Ben was still alive, and always looking at her shoes to see whether or not she was planning on fucking or just going out in the city. 

"Let's have dinner," he insisted. It's not like she resisted, even a little bit. Her hand reached to her right, and she grabbed a coat, hastily slipping it on as well as her shoes. He watched her try to balance herself but also act neutral. It wasn't working. 

Finally, she was on both of her feet again. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. Peter turned and they silently walked down the hallways, the stairs, and sat in an uber together that would take them to a restaurant in the Bronx. 

Paparazzi were everywhere stationed in Manhattan, waiting for Peter or Tony to be seen together, even a year later, the world wasn't over the Stark Son scandal. There were greater things to worry about, but all the world wanted to know was the reason Peter didn't follow Tony, Pepper, or Harley Stark back on his social media sights. 

They sat directly under a chandelier, beside a window that had a great view, and finally, he met her gaze, as the waiter served them wine. Her favorite, _chateau cheval blanc 1961_ because Peter thought it was the only apology Peter could mean. 

"How are you," was the first thing she asked once the waiter had left, "I mean, with the entire reveal," 

Bringing the glass of wine up to his lips, he bobbed his head as he took a couple of gulps, "I've told you about my beliefs about Stark Industries and their history, but coming from the Starks isn't worse than growing up as a Parker," 

Her expression saddened, and she reached forward, placing her hand over his before he pulled it away. 

"And how are you then," he asked, motioning towards her ring, "married life is difficult," 

"It's always supposed to be," she mumbled, then started to slowly take her ring off, tucking it away in her coat pocket. 

He'd give it a few more months before they got a divorce. The press would love this. They'd love him if he told them about it, but the more of his wine that he drank the less he cared. 

Richard had never met Stephany, but he was sure, if he had, they would have been a perfect match. Stephany being so bold yet so compliant, and Richard being so silent and thirsty for sex and knowledge, they would have been perfect together. 

She was so pathetic, Peter decided, so very pathetic, but maybe she wasn't always this way. Maybe she wasn't always this pathetic or a sadist, or so willing to take off her wedding ring, to mary a man after only weeks of knowing him. 

Nothing changed. 

They had dinner, then stepped out, and he walked her back home, where her husband had left a note telling her he was going to San Fransico for a week, and her face was still as nonchalant as ever. 

When she slipped off her dress, his sixth sense blared immediately, but he already knew what was coming. 

But this time it was his choice. 

This time, she had no control over him, it was he who had control. There was nothing to tie him up with, his uncle was no longer around, and she could no longer beat him, or make him feel weak, or punish him. He went through years of torture and because of the pain; he learned. 

In a year she hadn't changed, not in her personality, not the way she looked, not her confidence, but what had changed was that he was no longer hers. 

He stepped away when she started to descend upon her, and he glared, rejecting her with just his body language. Because it was his choice now. 

"Who else?" he asked.

She looked bewildered and hurt as she pulled on a robe that was tossed on her couch. 

"What do you mean?" she asked, "Peter-" 

"You're sick Stephany," he spat, "sick, what other kid have you molested and raped, who else? Do I even want to know how many?" 

Her look was filled with fear, her eyes filled with realization. 

"You didn't like-"

He left, slamming the door behind him. 

Maybe he didn't like change, but she wasn't worth it. Teresa, wherever she was, would just have to deal with that. 

... 

"Where were you?" Harry asked when Peter stepped into the room, "Tony came in, and for every subtle insult I threw his company's way, he always had a comeback, I needed backup, but you were somewhere else, doing god knows what," 

Peter smiled, and went back to his box, taking out the empty bottles and filling them with some soil he picked up along the way, dropping in a rose seed. 

"I was buying more alcohol and cigarettes, if you want some, they're in the brown bag," he said, motioning to said bag he placed next to the door when he stepped inside. Harry whooped and moved toward it. 

"Where do you even get this stuff?" he sighed dreamily as he took out the vodka that had become his favorite over time. It was one of the five bottles of alcohol he brought back with him. The rest being wine and whiskey only, because yeah Peter liked vodka but wine and whiskey were just always up there while vodka was a second reluctant choice Peter made when he was at the liquor store. 

Placing the bottle directly under the sun that shone through the window, he took the jug of water he kept on his desk and watered it before turning back and handing Harry a card. 

"Just tell them I sent you and they'll hand whatever you want right over," he said. 

Harry took the card and stuffed it in his pants pocket, then continued to uncap the vodka bottle, sniff the top, moan, then take a couple of sips. His antics were dramatic, to say the least, but they made Peter smile none the less. 

"Oh, you're dad also wanted to ask if you could babysit tonight or something because the nanny can't come until eight p.m and Tony and Pepper can't find a nanny on such short notice and have enough time to inform them of all of Morgan's needs or something," Harry informed him, "I can stay with too if you'd like," 

"Harley will be here indefinitely before some of his classmates come over for his birthday party," Peter said. 

"Oh yeah," Harry nodded, "Tony also implied that you'd also have to babysit them too," 

"He thinks I'm so mature," Peter said with every hint of sarcasm he could shove into his tone, "but here I am, letting you drink vodka," 

"Letting?" he said, arching a brow. 

"If I was mature," Peter explained, "then I would take it away, but I'm the one who brought you the vodka, seriously could you drink any quicker?" 

Harry continued to gulp down the liquid inside, rolling his eyes as a reply. Ruining his body, wonderful, Peter was never able to because of his quick healing and metabolism. 

_You shouldn't wish for that_

Peter ignored the voice instead. 

"Why do you have a stuffed animal on your desk?" Harry asked all of a sudden. 

"Hmm" Peter turned to look at what Harry was looking at "Oh that's Nemo, I keep him there to help my mental health," Peter said looking at the orange and white fish his dad brought back the day _after_ his birthday because he'd missed Peter's _actual _birthday. 

"How does he help you?" Harry said, walking over and picking him up. 

"He helps keep me sane," Peter said wisely. 

A look of understanding came over Harry's face and he nodded. Which was kind of weird, cause when he told Mary Jane she gave him a weird look. This was understandable, again, he and Harry lived a pretty similar precarious childhood. He was pretty sure the brown pottery tea set on display in Harry's room was what kept him sane. It used to be his mother's. The set was ancient and needed to be used every day to be kept intact. 

Peter understood why it kept Harry sane. 

...

"God I hate America," Peter mumbled under his breathe. 

It's midnight by then. The nanny has arrived, the party is over, and Peter's reading an article about a thirteen-year-old boy who was shot by a male, white cop while he played basketball with a couple of friends. 

Of course, this wasn't entirely America's fault. But still. 

He took a quick shower, and as he was walking to his closet, he looked up, stopped and noticed just how much his room had changed, and how beautiful the view from his room was. 

The night sky was very pretty, he thought, though he was very upset about the light pollution. 

For a while, when Peter was younger, he dreamed of becoming a writer. Not a biologist, or an engineer, or an astronomer, which is what Richard suggested when Peter said he wanted to write about the stars, he wanted to be a _writer, _but that had been completely unacceptable. He couldn't be a writer. 

_You're stupid to think writers are successful. They're foolish, idiotic sons and daughters of bitches. Read the books they write for you Peter but don't become a writer. _

It was a dream crushed, and Peter stopped wanting to be a writer after he became a soccer player, a trainy, a scatter, a singer, a football player, a genius, a physician, a chemist, the list went on, but with the number of dreams and paths Richard and Ben piled onto him grew, and after a long time, Peter forgot what he liked and disliked. 

Now, Peter gave less of a fuck about the things he was or would be. 

He forgot how to write novels. Forgot how to write poetry. No longer wondered about the stars because he knew all of the science behind them. 

Light pollution bothered him. So he turned off his phone. But the moment he turned it off, he started getting a call. 

An unknown number. 

He ignored it, sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and opened a document. 

He'd write something, but keep it to himself. 

There was a _click, _then rapid breathing. 

Peter turned, stood up to grab his phone. 

_"Peter?" _Monica breathed. 

He recognized her voice instantly. 

It was Monica's voice. His friend he hadn't seen in years. 

His phone was old, crappy, and even though he'd wanted to hear from her for a long time, he was a little upset he hadn't updated his phone, or modified it, put Karen inside to block out these problems. 

"You sound unsure," Peter said, trying to act nonchalant, "how have you-" 

"_They know_," she said, cutting him off with her raspy voice," _Hydra's revealed itself, Captain America exposed Hydra hiding inside of S.H.I.E.L.D, and the Black Widow is threatening to expose all info on secret hidden assets apart of Hydra. There's information about you Peter. About Richard's experiments, your training-" _

He went from being okay to dreading taking another breath.

Those phrases, _the blood drained from their faces, his gut twisted inside his stomach, a stone-cold feeling set in the bit of her abdomen, _it's what he felt. 

Every feeling in his face was replaced by a hard numbness, and suddenly Peter remembered why he gave a fuck about what people thought about him. 

He sat down, rapidly moving to his laptop again, opening up a tab then getting to work. It took twenty seconds to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D's database, even though there were walls up everywhere, he managed to get rid of the trace of the hacking too just in time, then hacking into the Hydra database hidden inside S.H.I.E.L.D's before searching up _Parker. _

What she'd said was true. Everything was there. As well as separate test subjects connected to Peter. 

What he found was something worse than finding out how many children had endured the same pain caused by Stephany. At least, at that moment. 

Ben Reily. Jessica Drew. The most recent besides Peter. Kaine Parker. 

Teresa, Harley, and Morgan Stark weren't his only half-siblings, what he found made his run blood cold and every idea that his Richard had been even a little bit of a decent human being flushed out of his mind as he flitted through file after file on failed experiments on toddlers. His siblings. 

"_The world will know. Everyone will be able to just search the truth up Peter, erase it."_ Monica demanded more than suggested,"_ Get rid of it, now! Don't let this ruin your life, I left, so I wouldn't ruin my future, but in a while, the world will know everything I did for these sick fuckers, but that's okay, because I'll be dead, erase it, do it now before someone finds out. I need to go. They've found me. Erase it. Do as I suggest, you won't regret it," _

No, he probably wouldn't.

She'd hung up.

There was no time to try and contact her. 

He couldn't get rid of this.

Of the locations of Hydra bases around the world. Every Hydra agent in the world. Everything, experiments, assets, mission reports, everything associated with Hydra. Not before he made copies, not before he saved them. 

And that he did. 

He saved everything. The thousands of files, he saved, downloading them onto Karen's database to be protected. Then he erased all trace of his and Monica's conversation before he continued to erase all her history, but kept her life's work. 

Every bit of it was gone from the database, but he traced the call. 

Where was his friend now? 

Close. New Jersey. Paterson. 

It took a little over half an hour to get from Manhattan to Paterson in New Jersey. The base was hidden under the floor of a bridge. Once his suit had formed around him, he caved his way inside the base. Or what he thought was a base. 

The base turned out to be a safe house, and it took no time to get in. The door was wide open, but the fourteen Hydra agents made it kind of difficult, but it took mere moments to knock them out and enter Monica's compromised hideout. 

Whatever the Hydra agents on the computers were looking for, they wouldn't find it. Everything was gone and his, Karen was programmed to override anything that tried to override those files. 

"Hey guys, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to step on your moment here, all I need to know is where Monica is, then I'll be on my-" then they started shooting at him, like what the fuck guys? Tell me where my friend is, there was no need for this. 

They all hung from the ceiling at the end, the blood rushing to their head. Whatever. 

When they were all silent enough, when they were all out of his way, that's when he began to look. 

He observed his surroundings. Thought about how long Monica must have spent here while also still thinking about Ben, Jessica, Kaine, over and over again, he saw their little bodies that never got to grown. 

Then, as he walked down a hallway, a sudden realization came to him that maybe they weren't dead, that the 'failed experiment' label just meant they never received the powers. Maybe. 

He found a photo oh himself in a frame, picked it up, looked at it and remembered the day they took it. Her apartment, both of them laying back on the bed, then he put it down, and quickened his pace, looking for Monica. She'd missed him enough to keep a photo of him displayed, he needed to place those thoughts of his siblings aside because he was here on a mission and one mission only. 

To help his friend. To save his friend. 

But that little flicker of hope that Monica might have been gagged to be taken as hostage later went out when he found her. They probably had been planning on doing that. She knew it too, so the bullet through her head was probably her idea of an escape. 

Peter should have snapped out of the shock he'd been in as he spoke to her on the phone to tell her to be patient, to wait for him, to tell her he'd go to hell and back to find her and make sure she'd be safe again, except in a much better sturdier safe house. Somewhere in Alaska or London. In one of the many apartments, houses, estates that he had inherited from his mother', his father's, his uncle's, and his aunt's will. 

There was no denying her death. 

It was there, in the way her head lolled in a horrible angle because one of the agents that found her took out their frustrations by shaking her body. There were too many signs indicating that. It was most likely because of those actions that she was drained of all her flood. The angle she was placed in had all the blood flowing out like a waterfall. 

She looked the same, he realized, as he placed her body in the center of the bed, and wrapped the bedsheets around her body. 

Her hair was still black, her skin was still pale. 

He'd missed her. 

Though he only knew her for a little bit, she'd been a mentor. She'd taught him all about physics, calculus, introduced him to Jane Eyre, and Thai take out. 

He'd never talk about her. She was apart of a past she'd helped him get rid of before the world found out. 

... 

He buried her in Queens. 

Somewhere to the side of the graveyard. No one would be buried there again. The Parker line was possibly dead, and he was sure if Kaine was alive, he wouldn't want to be associated with the Parkers. 

But it turned out when Peter got back home at four in the morning and dug a little deeper into whatever was inside the files, the fact they were 'failed experiments' meant they were disappointments. They were drugged. Each died at the age of three. 

Peter felt so stupid for loving Richard Parker once. And he felt so stupid for mourning Monica when it turned out, she'd been in on it since the beginning. NYU STEM field major my ass, twenty-two years old, my stupid ass, he thought, she died at the age of thirty-five after a lifetime of cruelty working for Hydra. 

When she made a mistake, accidentally killed a Head of Hydra with a failed experiment of her own, she'd gone into hiding. 

He thought she cared about him. 

What a load of bullshit. 

* * *

Peter moved. 

It was weird to state that because he was thirteen, but he had inherited a penthouse apartment in Massachusetts. Only a few months before college he decided he would just start to settle down there. 

He was studying law at Harvard for a year, majoring in Law, Business, History, Philosophy, and Art,(which wasn't even supposed to be allowed but Peter was very ahead with all the separate classes at NYU he took during high school). 

And Peter would be going to Standford in his second year of college, to Major in Biology, Chemistry, Economics, Human rights, and Sociology. For the two years, he would study at Standford in California he'd be staying in a house that used to belong to his mother's, but of course, he wouldn't be worrying about that until his year after Harvard. 

Then to Yale for a year to major in Mechanical Engineering, Psychology, Astrophysics, Political Science and Mathematics. There he'd be living in a large estate near the university, that used to be Richard's grandfather's house. 

In his final year, at MIT, he'd major in Computer science, Engineering, Physics, Biological Engineering, Electrical Engineering, and an extra class; which what the hell was the point, he'd probably be dead by then with stress; Chemical Engineering. There he'd be staying in a manor, that belonged to the late Genavine Parker, his great, great grandmother, Richard and Ben's mother, a place they were raised in. 

It was all very confusing, but Peter thought it would be much simpler if he just lived in those houses, instead of student dorms, and socialized with the Stark's only when necessary as not to ruin Tony's reputation as a good father. 

Though there was particular rage over Tony allowing his son to move. People felt bad for Peter and called Tony, a bitch for abandoning Peter then kicking him out to soon after taking him in, and even though Peter never wanted to cause that type of ruckus, he knew it would come, and knew how to calm it. 

Stark Industries stocks went back up and even higher than before and Peter managed to even make himself believe the lie he told the press. 

("Mr. Stark has been a great help to me the past year with coping on my recent family loss," Peter said and leaned on the pedestal, looking at everyone, "a pain, I'm sure, many know well, and though many consider Mr. Stark's actions wrongdoings when he decided to not acknowledge me the first twelve years of my life as his son to the word or press, simply is because at the time he had his problems to deal with, though not external but internal. 

He understood no part of him could consider fatherhood, and my mother had only consoled him when she conceived out of respect, and her idea that the father had a right to know about their child." 

They were quick. They seemed the seagulls or starved pigeons, and the reason they were so desperate to get information about this situation was that the entire time he'd been silent about it. Up until now. 

Casandra Maya, a reporter from _The New York's Time _was quick on her feet, her pen pointed in the air, she stood out, definitely, so he nodded in her direction. 

"Mr. Stark," she said, calling attention to herself, "how do you feel about the fact he'd take on another son a year later, then marry, and now has a newborn daughter, seemingly not caring for your wellbeing as if pushing you aside and proving a point that he has moved on from you, and merely wants to raise his own family, marking you as an intrusion on his hideous part," 

Peter sighs, smiling on his part. 

"Well, you see Miss Maya, I'm quite glad I was raised in a separate family, though grateful for Tony Stark's, because in the Parker family, I was raised to listen, not just to talk back, but to understand,"

He was passive-aggressively calling her a drama queen, and so that got him an applaud,") 

It did make him think though, and it turned just into another better reason to move. 

The thing is, Peter needed to take on a roommate. 

He wouldn't be able to handle living alone in a penthouse apartment, he admitted it pretty soon once he'd stepped into the apartment. It was large, of dark colors, and hollow. 

More people than not were more than willing to pay just rent for the cost of a room, but girls and boys wanted too much, wanted a little more than just living with him, they wanted to have parties there, Peter refused, they wanted to sleep in Peter's bed with him; though mostly the girls were bold enough to say that, and they obviously wanted other things out of Peter, and his fame. 

At the end of the day, there was no one worth taking on as a roommate, until he met Jessica Jones. 

Not very social, she was studying English, Film, History, Engineering, and Anthropology. The only deal she wanted was a larger TV. She loved the Netflix show Peaky Blinders, preferred a larger screen to see it on. And, she was fifteen. 

When he moved, he took the chance to change the style of his room. 

The walls in the room in his tower were white, but the room there was burgundy color, and he only brought dark mahogany shelves, to store his books and binders. The only instrument he brought was his violin. 

His shets were kept a navy blue, and he had a Harvard banner hanging over his bed. 

He left the rest to his interior designer. 

It was pretty similar to hers, maybe that's why they had pretty similar ideas for the living rooms. The couches were leather and the one on the first floor, were black, on the second red. The curtains were dark green and the walls were grey. 

They got along fine. 

She was secretive, and he didn't push her, and he was too, she didn't care. 

Even with everything going on, moving, Hydra all over the place, college, he still had a bunch of Spiderman business. 

One of many he had had to do with Hydra. 

First of all, he had no desire to work with S.H.I.E.L.D what so ever. Hydra, Peter was convinced, was nothing different from S.H.I.E.L.D, and obviously, Nick Fury had no idea who he was supposed to trust. 

When he contacted Peter he was taking a huge risk, because it took little time as he stayed longer and longer on the call, to figure out Fury had no idea Peter himself had been training to be a Hydra agent. 

Well, he more or so just contacted Spiderman. 

Or he more or so sent an agent to contact him. 

It was unexpected, to say the least. Jessica was going out, to have dinner with her sister or something, and Peter had a lead on a missing kid named James Shelby. 

He was seventeen and had been last seen with his friends on Coney Island, then he hitchhiked home but wasn't seen again. His parents wanted their son back, but Peter was beginning to fear, from where the leads were taking him, that he'd have to bring them back a dead body. 

His feet led him to an apartment complex. He'd tracked James' phone, in a car that was parked there in the building, found the owner of the car and raided the apartment. The phone was in a drawer, and as he'd dreaded, it was matted in blood. 

Quick, walking through the apartment one more time he found recipes online, of a plane ticket recently bought for a trip to San Diego. The mess of clothes in the grand room indicated panicked packing. 

Classic murder. 

Peter left the building, only James's phone in his backpack sealed inside of a plastic bag. 

Then, Maria Hill was pushing him up against a wall, shoving a taser against him. 

"Were you ever not working for S.H.I.E.L.D," Peter asked as he lightly shoved her off, grabbed her the taser and threw it into the street. 

Maria sighed, "we've contacted you multiple times, and you didn't respond once," 

Peter made a face under his mask and shrugged, throwing up his arms, "I'm busy trying to solve murder honey, potential serial killer, I have a deadline, so there's no time to waste," then he tried to move past her. 

She threw a punch, he deflected it obviously, but it startled him. 

"Dude," he said, pushing her away, "what do you want?" 

Reaching into her pocket she proceeded to retrieve her phone, tapped the screen a couple of times then showed it to him. 

"That's you isn't it?" she asked, scrolling past photos of him in his suit in that safe home that had belonged to Monica. Him knocking out the agents, they must have located the safe house and found them upside down. There was a short video of him picking Monica up, carrying her bridal style away. "You were infiltrated with a Hydra agent from the looks of it, why?" 

Looking harder at the photo, Peter just sighed. "Old mentor, or just a friend I guess. Said she was a college student, I believed her. When she went missing, I located her there following leads. It's what I do. A Hydra agent you say?" 

So suddenly, she found out overestimating him was a bad idea even though it was a good one, but still. Peter Parker and Spiderman were completely different people. 

Clearing her throat, she nodded, "understandable. We're offering you a position-" 

Leaning away he looked at her up and down, "are you one of them?" 

She instantly got what he was referring to, moving forward she rested her hand on his arm, "no, Spiderman, not in the least," she said firmly. He trusted no one, but still, she sounded genuine, "but here's the thing, you're an enhanced operative. We'll pay you full time for the work we need you to do. Raid Hydra bases. Find moles. " 

Clicking his tongue, he moved away, "Aren't those the jobs the Avengers handle? And how the hell do you know you can trust me?" 

Maria stepped away from him, "You find children for their parents for free. You've paid for rehabs, paid hospital bills. To many. You'll need this money, for what we're guessing, to pay even more. We don't know if we can trust you, but we know you're good at what you do. Right now, at this moment, we have very little allies that haven't turned against us already. We're willing to take blind shots,"

"That's a bad idea. You really shouldn't do that with most people," he advised. "I'd know," The look she gave him was calculating, but she couldn't see, his face was masked. He left without another word. 

This was the last missing child case he would be taking in a while. With college starting up, he wouldn't have the time. 

What he found in San Diego was worse than he thought. 

It ruined his day for sure, to see a boy, seventeen, naked, sprawled on a bed, only white sheets covering his lower body. Very much alive, though breathing slowly, his eyes staring into the distance, into the void that seeped back in. 

Hickeys. Bruises. He resisted from his assaulters. Looking at him, Peter wondered if his mother was right when she said he was seventeen. He was small, thin, pale, body feminine, but shoulders broad. Didn't play aggressive sports like football, soccer, or basketball, maybe tennis. 

Linda, his mother, described him as a kind, loving person. Stepping towards him, Peter placed a hand on the mattress, shifting the gloves of his hands so they disappeared and he placed his hand on the pulse of his neck. 

James shuddered, but otherwise, he didn't move. 

Putting pressure against the pulse, Peter began to rub it. Sometimes Peter used his Hydra training, especially in situations like these, but he hadn't had a rape yet, it worked all the same. He'd been approached aggressively every time, it seemed, his immediate reaction to gentle intimacy was to sob and curl into himself. 

"I'm gonna get you out of here," he said, wrapping his arms around his chest and bringing him up so he was in a sitting position. 

Slowly, they dressed him. It's not like Peter expected this, he certainly didn't want to dress the kid in his rapist's clothes. He had a change of clothes in his backpack. So he gave his boxers to the boy and then helped him pull on the sweats and the shirt, which hung on him, too big for his scrawny structure. 

There was no time to shop for other clothes, though he wished there were. 

He took him to the doctors to get a checkup. He was tested for STD's but thankfully came back negative for every single one. 

His mother was released to see him again, destressed to find out how he'd been found, where he was found, and the state he was in. 

Peter didn't need money, didn't waste it, James would need it, for therapy, college, because Peter insisted he couldn't let this ruin it. Columbia, a scholarship. The money was for books, supplies, etc. 

No, he didn't need money. 

Yet when she called her three hours later, on the old untrackable phone he kept, for a small mission, he took it. The money was transferred once he'd accepted the assignment. 

Siberia here we come. 

... 

They threw a graduation party. 

Of all the foolish things to do, they threw him a graduation party, because of course, they didn't know any better. It was still very annoying because Peter had never had one before because his family knew him well. Or well, Ben knew he could have cared less for one. 

It was hosted there in the tower, a ball of some sort, and Peter was filled with anxiety the entire event, people coming up to congratulate him.

The only people he knew there, in a close way, not just models he'd slept with or male models he'd fooled around with, but people he knew and that was his adoptive family. Gwen was Arizona, visiting family, Mary Jane was in Colorado, and Harry was in Paris, modeling for something. 

Besides Harry, the entire rest of the people seemed to just be a stunt of some sort. Bring some type of good attention to Tony and his perfect family or whatever. 

He'd never felt so angry in his life, so upset, but also so aware of his ungratefulness. 

This was a party for the top layer he showed everyone, and he knew, this could have all been avoided if he'd just been less paranoid of everything. 

He played one of his most iconic cards. Out of desperation, he did something very stupid, but at the same time, he also found out some very valuable information. 

He flirted. 

But this time, it was with a boy. 

Henry Harper is fourteen, quiet, but charmingly shy. He's tall, two inches shorter than Peter, almost lean, but not exactly. His hair is brown, fluffy, and his face is chiseled, eyes hazel in the light, and then a chocolate brown in the dark. 

Some time in the middle of the night, he becomes a subject of Peter's attention, it's not like he rejects Peter either. He blushes when Peter compliments his eyes, his skin, the light look on his neck and when Peter says he'd just love to feel it under his lips. 

There is a reaction in his body when Peter brings a drink up to his lips, makes him drink it out of Peter's hand, and the look in Peter's eyes when he licks his lips. 

**Instant attraction**.

Peter likes him. There's no doubt about it. Everything about him he likes. The way he speaks so passionately about Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol, and The Bohemians. 

Jane Austen if her favorite author, but Jane Eyre is his favorite book, and Peter argues that that can't be possible, but Henry argues that he can. They talk about the future, about how Peter is going to Harvard and Henry aspires to join Oxford, surly to study Atmospheric, Oceanic, and Planetary Physics. 

It's new and exciting. Peter hasn't in a long time, thought back to his other thoughts about his sexuality. He knows now it can't be a cause. You're born this way. He knows there's an attraction to girls in him, but Henry is irresistible, he has to admit that. 

It's not his first time having sex, but it's his first time with a boy three hours later. He knows Henry is inexperienced, it's his first time with anyone. Peter's glad, unsure if he did it with some other boy they would know as much about safety when it comes to male and male sex as he does. 

Peter uses a condom, uses lube, makes it worth Henry's while. 

Two weeks later, when Henry is across the world, back in London where he came from for the party as his father's guest, Peter slides down the wall of his room and laughed. 

Reading the article again, Peter continues his giggles, continues his hyperventilating. 

When he posted the **_I'm Gay and stronger than any of you so don't try anything, _**the post attracted a lot of attention. 

It was his Instagram account that had over a hundred million followers, his Instagram account that was blank, not one post except the new one. Articles, posts, tweets, or whatever filled the internet in milliseconds. 

The "_I'm sorry, I couldn't find one that said, 'I'm Bisexual and stronger than any of you so don't try anything' so this will do, _under it was mentioned more than once in these. Harry, Gwen, and Mary Jane have called him too many times to count, texted him his congratulations for coming out.

Tony has called him more than all of his friend's calls and texts together. 

Tossing his phone to the side he snorted when Jessica walked into the room, balancing five short glasses, before plopping onto the ground and letting Peter arranged them on the ground to be filled with vodka, one that was cheap, because Jessica could afford only that, but Peter didn't care. Sure, he'd only ever had expensive vodka, but he never cared about the taste, because there was never really any effect. 

Jessica felt it immediately, her face scrunching up and eyes tearing up a little bit, as Peter laughed. 

"I'm older than you, but somehow you're more experienced than me, care to explain," she said, as picked the bottle up and refilled the glass. 

Sighing Peter shook his head, "Nah," he said, "I ain't saying shit," he replied, taking two shots at a time. 

Swallowing, Jessica nodded towards his phone, then kicked it towards Peter. 

"Answer, I'm bored, maybe something interesting will happen," 

Not checking to see who was calling, Peter picked up the phone and answered the call, holding it up to his ear as he drank his drink, looking pointedly at his roommate, smiling lazily and rolling his eyes. 

"What the fuck, Peter?" Tony's voice said, coming out angry, frustrated and irritated. 

"Hello love, what's up?" Peter replied, holding the phone away and putting it on speaker for Jessica to hear. If it got nasty, then it would get nasty. It would be interesting because to be true, Peter was also very bored. 

"You can't do this Peter, okay, you can't joke around like this-" Tony started but Peter made an offending sound, scoffing to cut Tony off. 

"Mr. Stark, you think so little of me," Peter sighed, "I'm not capable of joking around about that. It's inappropriate to do so. Unless it's true and in my defense it is. Do you happen to have a problem with that Stark?" he asked. 

"No. Peter, not at all," came a rushed reply, as Tony tried to reassure him. "It's just, the board isn't happy, they're afraid it'll affect the stocks,"

With one look her way, Jessica understood, nodding as Peter stood up and took the call off of the speaker, leaving the room, walking into the common area, coming to stand in front of the large windows, overlooking streets filled with traffic. 

"Right. The stocks," he mumbled, pulling the phone away, putting it back on the speaker as he went on another tab to check the stocks.

"Homophobia is on the down-low. It's 2019 for god's sake, but there are still people who believe it's all kinds of wrong. I don't care Peter. Love is love." What the hell did love have to do with this? The stocks changed, but only because they'd gone higher."Anyway, they're also afraid how it's going to affect you're future apart of the company and-" 

Peter blinked, then quickly left the tab, bringing his phone up to his ear. 

"My what?" he said. 

Tony didn't speak. 

He'd said something he wasn't supposed to, but Peter had learned, Tony never liked being silenced, he was confident and held too much pride. 

"As CEO," Tony said after only a brief moment, "Harley doesn't want to be the owner. He wants to be like me, design things for Stark Industries, but he doesn't want the burden of the company. We don't want that for Morgan either. You have the most experience, so we're leaving the company in your hands once you graduate college." 

His hands were still, because of the training he'd endured, but Peter had no idea how they weren't shaking. 

_No. _Peter wanted to say, _no, I don't want this. Did you not think about how little I would want this. I've never wanted this. No. No. No!_

His facade stays the same, as he blinks ahead, not sure if he's seeing anything ahead of him. Why should it matter to him, this entire situation, won't matter until later but it will hang over his head. 

_We don't want this for her. _

Tony's words ring in his head, a reminder of just how little he cares about him. 

Of course, he would leave the burden to him. He'd raised Harley, there was no point trying to be his favorite because Peter understood Harley would always be superior to him. And Morgan was his child. His child with a woman he loved. It was obvious she would be placed above Peter in every situation. It was simple. There was no feeling bad about it. 

Still, he felt it, the small dent it made in his... heart? Mind. That part of his brain that was the fault for why he felt and had emotions. 

"Right. It's fine Mr. Stark," Peter said, comforting his dad because, in the end, the only thing that made Peter happy was the fact he was able to make other people feel better, it didn't matter who it was, though he'd rather it be Teresa. She'd deserve it no matter what. "I'll have it covered. Do an interview, meet up with some journalist I know I can trust. It'll wash over. Look, I need to go," he forced a chuckle, though it sounded so real it scared him. "I've been getting calls from friends. I need to take them off the list of people I need to explain things to. Have a nice day Mr. Stark." 

There's no pause. He's convinced his dad. "Alright, then Pete. Have a nice day." 

It's already dark out. Neither of them acknowledged it. 

* * *

Morgan is almost two years old when Peter comes home. When he steps into the room, she doesn't recognize him. It's not like he's ever tried to get to know her, Tony has never seen him get even within ten feet of her, willingly at least, because the few times they asked Peter to babysit for them, he always proved to be the superior babysitter, but otherwise, he steered clear. 

Harley and his two friends are there too. It's weird seeing him again. In all honesty, Tony didn't expect to, after all, Peter had been quick and haste to move out, coming back to visit had been a surprise but somehow Pepper had managed to convince Peter that they should spend thanksgiving together. 

Peter didn't look... upset about it, but Tony had never been able to read his face. It was content, pulled together, firm, set, but welcoming, as he'd always been, just distant in himself. 

One glance towards Morgan had Peter sort of recoiling. He didn't know if he could call it that, it was more like, Peter looked away, met Tony's gaze, then didn't let it waver. 

Tony moved forward first, to shake his son's hand, which was weird in itself but really what more could he want. It had taken over a year to get Peter to even look him in the eye, and even then, he was looking sideways when he pulled his hand away. 

"I'm in contact with a potential investor," was the first thing Peter said, "the one you lost after you dropped the weapons division," 

Ah, right. This entire business thing happened all of a sudden, and it was all Tony's fault. He'd slipped up when he told Peter, and then he decided, why not just go on with it, teach Peter some things, have him go to meetings with him, for him, sit in onboard meetings. It was working out, Peter was as prepared for it as he was with everything.

"Corona?" Tony said, surprised, his brow arching without control. 

Peter nodded, then without another word, walked away, towards his room, where he stayed for the next thirty minutes before Harley was ordered to retrieve him for lunch. 

Harley stared at Tony for a minute before he opened his mouth to begin his protest. 

"Peter's like that you know. He'll come out of his room, I'll tell him to come out to eat lunch, at the moment, with all of us, then find a way to twist everything around so he can stay in his room and avoid us like the plague," Harley sighed, "I hate to admit it, but my brother, you're son, doesn't really like us," he said, then shrugged, but moved towards the hallway anyway. 

To their utmost surprise, he came back with a nicely dressed Peter Stark, who sat down at the table right across of Harley, then dug into the began pasta Pepper had made for him. 

Michelle, Harley's best friend, (and possibly the scariest person right next to Natasha) watched Peter with interest, as he ate. 

In the middle of lunch, it seemed, the act Peter had been pulling where he didn't notice she was looking turned, and he looked right at her. 

"Are you studying my human behavior because you're some sociopath of some kind and I'm particularly normal enough to adapt as?" he asked kindly. 

The room goes silent. Ned, Harley's other friend who Tony likes a lot for a variety of reasons, curls into himself, a confused look on his face, but filled with new wonderment, and Tony remembers his utmost innocence of everything and laughs to himself at the thought Ned believes Peter. 

Michelle smiles, it's sweet but fake, "Yes. By the way, you have the greatest taste in books." 

"Ya," Peter smiles, "sad I know. What were you doing in my room?" 

"Harley wanted to see if you had porn," Michelle replied without missing a beat. 

Tony laughed out loud this time, didn't even notice Pepper's look and Harley's look, the former of shock and the latter of utter horror. 

Peter lets out a laugh too, the only one he's ever had around them, as he nods, understandingly. 

"God, learning sex from porn is like learning to drive from fast and the furious," he turns to look at Harley and managed to smile kindly, "a fucking terrible idea," 

... 

Peter didn't patrol much in Massachusetts, but he found himself unable not to his first night back. 

Anyway, he had a lead, this time, though, it was a little personal, since it was his uncle's mob, or what was left of it, that he was chasing after in New York, in a place in Queens, where Peter followed a car with a driver, armed passengers and a trunk full of drugs, as well as a child, who had become a witness to the incident. 

Somehow, he followed them into Hell's Kitchen, before they finally stopped in a warehouse. 

The first to get out were the three armed passengers, one of them who went straight to the trunk, opening it as six men from inside the warehouse came with crates, then helped him stock them inside the crates. 

Mr. Man who likes to drive like he had nothing to love for is the one who forces the child out of the car. A child who's shaking with fear, but shivering from the ice-cold, after all, they shoved him in the car when he was in only his pajama pants and a t-shirt, which is how he left his house to investigate the crying coming from his neighbor's house. 

Contrary to popular belief, sometimes kids aren't being curious, just concerned, and the kid had been because the screaming coming from the house belonged to a woman, being beaten by her husband. 

Slipping inside of the warehouse quietly, he knocked out the men guarding the top floor of the warehouse, webbing them to the wall, then slipping slowly down to the first floor.

That's when he sees him. 

They call him Daredevil. He wears black clothes and black cloth which also covers his eyes. Enhanced hearing probably, or just skill in blind fighting. Peter looks around, waiting to catch a part of his plan, but it seems, Daredevil is as reckless as he's heard he is. When he launches at the armed men, they shoot as blindly as he moves. 

Sighing, Peter also jumps in, but he has a plan, one intervened by Daredevil yes, but still, it's gonna work out. 

He kicks the men in the legs, gets them on the floor, before moving towards Marcel, one of Ben's closest friends, who tries to shoot him twice, before he grabs the kids and decides all of a sudden, or more realizes how useful the kid it. The sight of the barrel of the gun pointed to a ten-year-olds head makes him stop in his tracks. 

Daredevil is there for the kid too. Suddenly, the gun is in his hand, and he's pointing it towards the man, and Peter knows he's not going to stop, so he runs, jumps, then grabs the kid's arm, pulling him towards him, as he kicks the man on his chest till he stumbled back, then when he's on the floor, groaning in pain, Peter webs his wrists to the ground. 

By then, Daredevil has noticed him there. 

It's only once all the men are either stuck to the floor or hanging from the ceiling that he really takes a look at Peter. His head tilts to the side, so Peter assumes the guy might actually be blind and has some enhanced senses that allow him to see his figure. He'd seen it before, studied people like him. It's obvious, but Peter's going to let the guy tell him himself. 

"You're on my turf," was all the guy said. 

Looking at the man on the floor and the greek sun on his wrist he shrugged, "you touched mine," 

"Parker's gang is your turf?" he asked, kicking the guy's head as if motioning to him that way. 

Peter nodded, "I know everything about them, from the first Parker who started this business to the last who died in vain,"

Daredevil hummed, "you know your Parkers," he said sarcastically, then he turned and started to walk away.

"Hey!" Peter shouted after him, and the guy turned, to watch Peter motion to the kid, "he's from around here, so he's yours. Bye!" 

Then Peter left. 

...

Peter finds Daredevil in the trashcan, just lying there at the very bottom of that empty large green recycling bin, looking sexy as hell in his black clothes, and Peter laughs when he thinks that. 

"God, Spidey, just help me out already," he groans. 

They've grown a little closer. They joke now. It's nice, and Peter loves to flirt with him because he sounds to punctual, too soft and strong to not be the best in... something, anything. 

He reaches in and pulls him out, letting the guy's arm come around his shoulders. He's been kicked around some obviously, and while he leans against him Peter remembered why they only just flirt and pretend to be interested in each other romantically. They're vigilantes. They've got their own secrets. 

They're only partners in this crime of helping other people and as Peter leans down, and just throws him over his shoulder, he finds the sound of Daredevil's groaning to be comforting. 

He feels a closeness that's nothing like Harry's or Gwen's. Because this person is weird just like him, not that Harry isn't weird, but he's just got a lot of secrets. Family ones, just daddy issues, but there are many like him. 

There's no one like Daredevil. Not exactly at least. 

...

Daredevil sighed, as he mended to Peter's wound. Maybe Peter should have told him that whenever he got shot, he had a scalpal on hand to cup his skin open and take the bullet out and then a bandage that would heal the wound pretty quickly, but... the guy told him to shut up. 

"Why the fuck did you do that you idiot," he said, as he pressed a towel or some really soft material to the wounds, to stop the bleeding.

Smiling under the mask, Peter kept his voice neutral when he replied but knew he'd hear the smile in his voice. 

"If I'm around, you won't even have a chance to kill anyone," Peter said. He watched at Daredevil's friend, Karen, came over, kneeling in front of him, taking tape bandaging then walking over to wrap it around his waist so the towel thing would be pressed to the wound. 

She was kind with her hands, as she took a different towel to clean the blood that had dried on his waist. She was pretty, and her smile was kind when she faced him. 

"It's an honor spiderman," she says, her voice soft, kind, but confident. 

His smile doesn't fade in a bad way but he just nods as it begins to go back to normal. 

"So you're not the killing type huh," Daredevil says. 

Peter looks at him, wondering how many people he'd killed, before nodding, "I grew up with it happening all around me. You kind of lose the taste for it," he replied, standing up. Daredevil and his friend stand up too. 

She placed her hand on his shoulder, as she wills him to sit down again but he shakes his head. 

"I have a doctor back home. He's on speed dial, I'm sure he'll fix this in just a moment. Thank you though, for your help.

...

Peter kind of wanted that to be the last time they saw each other.

So he likes Daredevil, but he's starting to care about him, and caring about someone who's past you have no idea about, it's a bad idea definitely, and Peter kind of preferred not having those. 

But, of course, it really just isn't how that works. The Universe tends to conspire against you at the worst points of your life, not that Peter thinks it's the worst point of his life, but it feels like it when classes begin to weigh on him, the crime rate goes up a little with him being gone so much, and his uncle's mob making reckless choices without their leader there to guide and instruct them. 

Apparently, Daredevil had been tracking Ben's mob boss interactions for a while now, but because when Ben had been alive, he'd had the best skills, knew the greatest ways to get away with all of his actions, but now that he was gone, the mob was getting sloppy and trackable. 

But then Daredevil began to trust him. He begins to ask for favors. He's got a life outside of being a vigilante, so he asks Peter to take care of some things for him. It starts happening all of a sudden, though sometimes Peter rejects. Sometimes, he's bored on a weekend, and none of the parties interest him, and Jessica is out, or decides for once to sleep early, he goes back to Queens to do some work. 

That day, Peter leans against the wall, contemplating what Daredevil had just asked him. 

"Spidey," 

"What?"

"Will you do it?" 

"Why should I?" 

"I just spent an hour trying to make it clear why you should help me on this mission,"

"Not an hour, fifty-eight minutes, add the forty-two seconds where you caught your breath then started again to speak your '_conclusion_' which lasted twelve minutes, where you just made a summary of your report. Now, I'd like to know why the likes of you would ask me for help, even though I've heard you've got a bit of pride to you," 

"Every man does,"

"I don't,"

Daredevil sighed. 

Besides the favors, they had been on many missions together too. 

This one wasn't. Daredevil just had a hunch and wanted Peter to help follow it. 

Some mind-controlling freak of some kind. Peter wasn't to keen on following this hunch, but Daredevil claimed the guy was doing damage of some kind, but he wouldn't tell him about it. 

The entire world wasn't focusing on a mind-controlling freak at the moment, with the whole, S.H.I.E.L.D being revealed as Hydra, and Peter still scrambling to hide any proof he was apart of that. This entire thing seemed a little bit silly. 

"Here's the deal," he said, "if I get any word on this. _I__f_ I get a job, and the clues lead to this entire situation, I'll come to you, but until then, this case is closed,"

Daredevil stiffened. "What?" 

Peter arched a brow at him, though the guy couldn't see it because of his mask," I know you heard me," 

Then he turned and left. 

He knew the man behind the mask. Or more like he knew who the man behind the mask _was_. It didn't take too long to figure it out. The way he spoke. His entire reason for righting. His sensory overloads. They all followed back to one thing. 

Blind. A lawyer, not one out for money, just for justice, so one with morals, = Matt Murdock. 

Joking around became funny after some time definitely, and he wasn't going to stop then. 

He wasn't lying about what he said, if there was even a hint that any of his jobs led to this maniac Matt was telling him about, then he'd immediately call Matt and inform him as well as help with the leads, then capturing and finding the victims. 

Until then, he had other matters to attend to. Essays he had to write. Projects he had to work on. An internship at a company he would inherit the second he graduated from college. 

Also, he hadn't slept in a week. 

Peter knew it had to do with the serum. He wasn't tired either. It was all because of the new DNA he had, and it upset him but relieved him the same. 

His dreams were getting worse. His nightmares were becoming reality, and Peter was beginning to think he could tell the future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of describing Henry Harper, I decided the person who embodies Henry is Ansel Elgort and the person who embodies Harry Osborn is Timothee Chalamet.
> 
> God, I hate myself for that, but it's true broskies. 
> 
> Anyway, I feel like I rushed this chapter. It's bad I know, but it's a start, and maybe later, I'll edit it as the story goes on.


	2. The Hideous Phantasm Of A Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reading Text Me When You Get Home and I've still got a few hundred pages left.
> 
> On another note. I just finished watching Heathers, and I'm quite placid. 
> 
> Also, I know Michelle Jones was like a step in for Mary Jane Watson, but I'm keeping the characters separate, though with a similar personality.

_ December 23_

He dreamed of his mother that night. She was with the love of her life, and he knew, even though it wasn't confirmed in the dream, that she had no children. It was the happiest he'd ever seen her. 

One time though, his dad had an entire month of work to do, across seas. Within the week he was gone, Peter got a look at the woman behind the drugs. The memory was blurry now, but he found a journal he'd written in when he was seven, giving a detailed description of the last three weeks of that month. 

Her hair was combed, for once, her face had its color back, rosy cheeks, and she looked younger, cheery in a way Peter hadn't been able to comprehend at that time, with a smile etched across her face all the time for fourteen out of those twenty-eight days. 

That was the only time he ever saw her happy. 

Slowly, everything faded, when she realized their dad was coming back. 

Peter wrote that he remembered watching her pack her suitcase, and pack a bag for him, then try and hurry away. 

_We went to Manhattan, to visit her friend, who said he'd help us, but Papa found us, _was all Peter wrote down. Sometimes, Peter wondered how Richard found them, and who this man, his mother's friend, was. 

No time to waste, <strike>his father</strike> Richard used to say_, _you'll die eventually. 

Peter hated knowing everything. It made reality a lot harder to handle, not that it was easy in the first place. People were cruel, and it scared him sometimes how cruel his dad had been, and how well he hid it, then showed it all at once with confidence. 

With a chiseled face _**("He looks like he was crafted by gods" a woman whispered to her friend, and Peter's hand grew a bit limper in his Dad's hand,)**_brown eyes that held too much shine in them, _**(****T**_**_hey glistened, in the moonlight, under the stars that weren't visible,) _**he loved hurting women. He loved it. 

_Dear Monty _(That's what Richard called his journal.)

_Her eyes were so wide, so so wide, with shock, misery, horrified in itself, it was beautiful, gorgeous, I swear I loved the look on her face that moment. I loved it. She loathed herself. She begged me not to go. She tried to coax me into her hold again. Her entire being was crumbling. I loved it. I loved it. I love to touch myself to the memory of her dead soul leaving her body and the tears in her eyes. She looked more beautiful than she ever had before. Pathetic. Her dignity was mine, her heart, I sold a long time ago. She was no one now. _

("Why can't we just-" Peter stopped as the blood-splattered. 

The kittens were all piled together now, once alive and freezing, now dead but in the midst of burning flames, hot all over. 

Richard smiled handsomely at Peter, as he walked over to take his hand. Together they stood in front of the pile of dead felines and watched them burn.

Peter watched the embers then looked up at his dad, wringing his hands nervously. Peter was already very tall for a five-year-old, standing at four feet, but his dad was 6"4 and broad. He was startled to see him smiling. Richard picked him up, placing him on his hip then pressed a kiss to his lips. 

"Look at you," he smiled, as Peter wrapped his arms around his neck, as his dad held him a little to close to the fire, frightened "you're my perfect little boy. Perfect, perfect," he cooed, pressing his lips to his cheek a couple of times. 

"Dad," he started, then caught sight of one head fall. With a disappointed sigh, he tucked his head into his dad's neck, his only hideaway. _They aren't savable._)

He loved hurting everything. Everything was a game to him. With caresses, promises, starving them of touch, then touching them until they burned. 

It was chilling, truly chilling watching it happen. 

Ben was different. He didn't torture them that badly. He slept around a lot, but few people stuck to him. Diana, Clarise, Stephany, Madalyn, Adeline, for example, were simply to dumb not to stay away. 

If he broke it off, sometimes, they left, moved on, had sex with other men, but never learned. They came back if he called them. 

Ben was mean to some girls except May, but Richard was cruel to everyone even his own wife. 

They never left him.

Peter used to sit next to his windows, looking out his windows at the women with red eyes, dark circles, unwashed hair, their hands clasped together in prayer, begging for their father. 

_"Please please please!" _

Sometimes, when he was bored, he'd bring them up, then coo at them, holding them, caressing them, then throw them out once his mother woke up or it was time for Peter to eat. 

It was legal to kill them. Maybe they still breathed but they weren't alive. While Ben's lovers wanted May out of the picture, wanted Ben all to themselves, were hurt in envy and craving for Ben, these women didn't care Mary was there. They would take what they would get. 

Anything. A smile. A look their way. His physical body in their room. 

They _needed _him in order to live. They didn't get up from bed unless they felt strong enough to come to beg Richard for anything. _Smile. Look at me. Stay with me. _

_Please! _

They would take abuse because it meant to feel his skin, his heat, _him. _

Peter had seen the most healthy, strong, stubborn women fall to his tricks.

They had a dog once for a month. Richard and he found it on the street. Neglected. They cared for it. Then Richard began his game again on it too. 

(It whimpered, and tried to snuggle up to his father before he shot it) 

So he dreamed of his mother. Dreamed of her, and spent two hours in bed trying to memorize her face, her smile, the face of the love of her life, then painted it on a canvas, shivering as he came closer and closer to having a physical picture of his dream on the white canvas. 

He painted the house and the man. 

The man had specific details in his face. High cheekbones, dark hair, white teeth, crinkles under his eyes as he smiled, plump pink lips. Peter swore he saw him somewhere. Somewhere. He looked nothing like Richard. He was fake but he was also real. In his paintings, this man danced with his mother, under Christmas lights, beside a Christmas tree, the sea in the background, that dog his dad killed sleeping in front of the heater, on a dog bed, those kittens his dad killed stretching away, those women, laughing, drinking wine, and off to the side. 

_Somewhere in California. _

("I grew up in San Fransico" she muttered to him one night, as he read _The Bohemians: Mark Twain and the San Fransico Writers who reinvented American Literature, _"you would have loved it there") 

Sometimes he forgot everything. 

In the Stark tower, his room looked like the one in Ben's room, with few changes. When he woke up, he'd look around him, at the light walls, the bookshelves. He was home. But his bedsheets smelled clean not of blood or semen, and Stephany wasn't there snoring lightly beside him. So it couldn't have been home. 

There wasn't screaming from down under, the sounds of tortured gang membered being inquired, or his sister's light groaning as she tried in vain to get herself out of bed. 

Just the sound of banging pots, Harley whining about wearing that expensive uncomfortable suit (oh my god, this suit could feed at least a hundred homeless people for a year and you're whining about having to wear it?), the sound of Morgan whimpering as Tony lifted her from her crib, startling her from her sleep, as the Avengers helped around the common room, teasing Harley, or in Steve's case, showering. 

Peter whimpered silently in pain, in fear, in anxiety. 

If he stood and walked into that room they would stop and look at him, like they always did. It hurt. It hurt. 

He wanted the blood on the floor, the bite marks on his skin that faded too quick to notice but which it's pain he always remembered, the screams, his uncle, who never looked up when he walked into a room. 

No one made him feel uncomfortable when he entered a room, but they all knew he was there, they just didn't care. 

Clenching his fists he forced himself up, stumbling to his bathroom silently, his ribs sore from the night's previous patrol, his head aching from drinking too much. 

It was going to be a bad day. 

_It was going to be a very bad day. _

He hurled into the toilet, his chest swelling, his muscled straining, his head throbbing, sweat rolling down his forehead, _the ones from his eyes were sweat too, he swore it. They weren't tears. He was fine. He was fine! _

He tried to catch his breath, but he threw up some more and more, that hurt in his chest never really going away, and that pain in his entire body not damping even a little. 

He woke up tired, just as he had gone to sleep. 

Standing up, Peter washed his mouth, brushed his teeth, showered, then brushed his teeth again. He shaved, he trimmed his hair lightly, before the knock came to his door. 

People were wrong when they said your mood influenced the way you dressed. 

Peter's hands shook as he pulled on black jeans, and his green turtle neck sweater, and his pea sweater coat, his warm socks under his dark timberland boots. _He was so cold. So unbearably cold. That's why he wore it. It looked stylish because they matched. _

_It was a bad day. _

Harley was the first face that greeted him that morning. His senses were overloading on top of him. He noticed everything about his younger brother. The pale skin he wore, the crinkled, the tiny forming wrinkles, the blue eyes that had a little green in them, some bits of Hazel, the way his lips curled into a trying smile, the way his nose scrunched up a little, the tiny freckles dashed across.

His clothes were light, his jeans blue were ripped, his blood-red t-shirt, over another shirt with long black sleeves, coming out from under the red shirt, the way his hair was combed, gelled, his shoes, hightops, making him a little taller. 

_He looks like that kid who's blood was drained out of him because you didn't kick Agent Sims hard enough. _

"Breakfast is ready," he said cheerily," Dad's home," 

_Your dad,_ Peter wanted to claim, _mine is dead. _

Tony was better than Richard. 

_Richard actually wanted me. _

Peter smiled, at this boy who'd lived this great spoiled life he wouldn't have wanted anyway but may be preferred over murder, blood, _please! Please! _**_*_****_Smack*_**

"Be right there, just need a minute," Peter said. Harley nodded, walking away as Peter closed the door, sliding down it. 

_Go._

_I don't want to. _

_You'll be fine. _

_What changed? _

_You're fine. _

_Go! _

Peter stood again, opened the door, and walked to the common room. No time for panicking. Richard was firm in his belief that if you didn't get over your fear by the time you had to confront it, which was right after, then you needed to do it afraid. 

They all stopped as he walked into the room, The Avengers, Tony, Pepper, they stopped, watched him sit down, then moved on. 

_Still weird. They don't really want you here. You should have gone with Jessica to stay with her and her sister. _

_It was a bad day. _

... 

Morgan was handed to him mid breakfast. 

Looking up, Pepper had a sort of desperate look on her face. 

"I need to take a call," she said, hurriedly," and Harley gets nauseous when Morgan sloppily eats her food and throws up," 

_I don't because I've seen guts and blood pour from people's mouths instead. _

Peter cleared his throat, then took Morgan, sitting her on his lap as he watched Pepper hurry away, her phone held close to her ear as she scrolled on a tablet screen in her other hand. 

Harley moved away some, as Peter began to spoon-feed Morgan. 

He was four again all of a sudden. Morgan was Teresa. Teresa who loved her pink dinosaur onesie, who's hand reached out to grab Peter when he tried to leave a room, who cried when their dad came into the room, who forgot her fear once their dad died, who'd look up at Peter and smile. 

Morgan looked up at Peter and smiled. 

Peter snapped his eyes up and away from her gaze, bringing her closer to his body so he could feed her better but without having to look at her. His hands held her kindly, as kindly as they could so as not to compare to how he used to hold his sister ---- **_You're not a child anymore, _**\---- Peter caught Tony's gaze. 

His _father's gaze. _

This man was his father. 

Something like disdain filled his abdomen, chest, hands. This man knew his mother was married but slept with her anyway. 

_("I made a mistake." _

No. You made me. 

_"Ya people do that," Peter replied with a small smile.) _

_I am a mistake. _

Looking around at this family, then at this child in his arms, he realized that. 

_You're alone now. _

He knew that. 

"I can-" Tony started and Peter was quick to hand Morgan over, then leave. No one asked him where he was going, because either people didn't care or just weren't comfortable enough to ask. 

Trying to convince himself that he was worth the space they gave him there in the tower was getting hard. Peter suddenly realized that he wasn't worth that space. Never had he felt that way. 

Insecurity started with his sexuality and ended only months before. For the twelve years of Peter's life before he moved into the Stark Tower before he found out that he was Tony Stark's son, he bearly had any insecurities. He was trained to be confident, but the air was thick in that house, he swore it. He felt like he was choking all the time around them, especially when he was alone. 

He hated it. Hated all of that. 

Something was wrong there, something was wrong with him. He hated it hated them- _shit_. 

Picking up his phone he called Jessica. 

She picked up on the third ring. 

"Hey," he said, pacing around the room at a slower pace now, looking over his shoulder to meet Harley's gaze. Harley's brows furrowed in wonder before Peter moved away from the door frame so he wouldn't be seen by the rest, "is your offer still up?" 

Jessica laughed on the other line, "of course, want me to come and pick you up?" 

Peter wished it wasn't such a relief. 

"That would be appreciated, thanks," Peter said, looking out the glass walls down at the parking lot, desperately wishing she was already there. 

He more felt this soft smile he'd grown accustomed to then when she spoke next, "alright then Petey, be there in a millisecond," 

_I wish. _

Peter walked back to his room, avoiding eye contact with everyone. In a way, he'd been sure this would happen. He'd been sure he would leave quickly. 

_You're becoming a wuss. _

_Who cares, run!_

He had no pride anyway. His suitcase wasn't even unpacked. 

There was a knock at his door, and Peter turned quickly to spot Harley standing there, his gaze confused. 

"You're... leaving?" he said, sounding exasperated, "you just got here, like, a day ago," 

Peter sighed, standing from where he was kneeling beside his case. 

"Well, yes, I know, but I told your mother I probably wouldn't even stay an hour." he let out a forced chuckle, "then I made it thirty," 

His younger brother rolled his eyes, "I know you don't like us." 

Now Peter was the one who was exasperated. He'd heard Harley say the same thing thanksgiving lunch, which is why he left his room. Predictability was uninsurance. 

Walking over, Peter surprised Harley by wrapping his arms around him. Not too surprised, Harley lightly hugged back. 

"Ummm," he trailed off, as Peter pulled away. 

"You're my brother Harley," Peter said kindly, grabbing the handle of his suitcase, "of course I like you," 

"I said 'us'" Harley said, insistent. 

Shrugging, Peter put on his favorite shades, "Harley," he glared playfully," you are unpleasable," 

He scoffed, "my ass. Why don't you like us?" 

Peter laughed, "I like you guys, I do." 

Nodding, Harley left. 

What a pushover, Peter thought to himself, but he thought it a bit fondly.

Just like Teresa. 

"Hey, Harley!" Peter shouted after him. 

Harley turned and walked back over. "Ya?" 

Peter dug into his bag, then took out a rectangle wrapped box. "Merry Christmas,"

Harley's brows furrowed as he took it. 

"What is it?" 

Peter allowed a small smile as he walked past him, "porn,"

... 

Peter spent Christmas watching Santa Clause with Jessica in their apartment because her sister had a last-minute meeting with her manager in New Hamshire. 

It had been almost two years since he had a good Christmas. It wasn't the same as before, but it felt similar. 

* * *

_March 12_

Their applause was supposed to be encouraging, but Peter didn't feel that, though his smile gave off that charm you get when you are encouraged. 

How he got there was a matter of tact. Whatever lead him there was recorded in his documents, his digital journal, or riddled inside of a poem he left tucked in between a book somewhere. 

"Identity." Peter smiled, "Identity is important to us because it's something we need to live with. People recognize us based on things that create our identity. Name. Voice. Ties. Face." 

Now he remembered. 

Peter had won the Nobel peace prize. 

It happened only the day after Christmas, that it was revealed he had been nominated for the Nobel peace prize. 

This only happened a month after Peter had given this Ted-Talk. Standing in front of a crowd of hundreds, he chose his most famous topic. The one that reporters dreamed he'd answer every question on. 

His feelings on "_T__he Reveal_" that had been for a long time, one of the most shocking things America had witnessed be discovered in front of their eyes. A scandal. There were so many other important things and people applauded him for putting other people ahead of himself even though he was going through this "hardship". 

"Before I was Peter Stark," Peter said, "Before I was Peter Stark I was an orphan being raised by his aunt and uncle. Before I was an orphan being raised by his aunt and uncle I was Peter Parker. It goes, Peter Parker, orphan, Peter Stark. I was raised for six years by a man who knew I wasn't his son yet he raised me anyway. I was born from an affair between a married woman and a- at the time- Bachelor. Let's separate this man- Tony Stark-" there was a pause, where even when the moment was tense, people wooed at the mention of this man's name,- Peter didn't grin or frown just nodded, -" and the man who raised me." 

In reality, he wanted to cry. 

_The man who raised me. _

Peter really, really wanted to say, dad. Dad, and not be talking about Tony. Dad. Richard. Richard raised him, created a serum that would keep him alive, this man did so much for him. When his own dad didn't want him. 

This man killed his children. While Peter shouldn't in any way want Richard, he craved to say that Tony Stark had never been and would never be his dad. 

Fuck him! He fucking left me! Fuck him! 

Instead, he smiled.

Everyone stared at his smiling face, but they didn't understand. 

"Let's call Tony Stark dad. When I say dad, I'm classifying him, when I say, papa, I'm classifying Richard Parker. You see, before I was Italian before I thought I was Italian, I was Russian. That fact was apart of my heritage. I was Russian not because my mother was but because my papa was. In reality, I never was. Never, ever. But I was raised celebrating this heritage of mine. I was raised celebrating Russian traditions. So it was so strange not being Russian because I couldn't be since my papa wasn't my papa. In reality, I was Italian." he smiled. 

It didn't matter. 

It didn't fucking matter. 

Who cared? He didn't give a shit about this anymore. 

"This was a small thing for me. Even now, it's sort of small, because this ethnicity didn't define me. It was just something I was proud of. One of my people wrote Peace and War!" the crowd proceeded to chuckle, which gave him support, "and I was sad to find out, I wasn't his people. I mean, there are great Italian authors. Dante Alighieri wrote the Devine Comedy. It didn't seem like a big deal to me when I was a child but it suddenly became very important to me when I found out for centuries and centuries, there hasn't been one drop of Russian in me. My point: one thing lost," he held up a finger. 

Teresa was Russian. 

Teresa had an idea before she died called the Mockingbird Survivor Foundation. 

("It's a story about the loss of innocence," Teresa said to him, two days before she died, smiling, "women, children, men, lose their innocence every day to things that are inhumane.") 

It was a foundation based around medical research into finding the cure for STI's, a place of safety for women, men, children, non-binary people, humans in general, trying to escape something, whether it's domestic abuse, sexual harassment, or their own minds. 

Peter didn't really worry about it. He made investments there, earning money to support research purposes. It was a job that employed people too, so people called it a company now, and in a way it was. Within a year it went from being a charity event to being a company in itself. 

"My name was stripped from me by me." he said to the crowd, "I was trying to process this, but I didn't want to put anything off. I wanted to pull the bandaid off. I wanted to get through this. It was getting in the way of my school work, my interactions with others. Soon, I was this confused bundle of work that needed to be done. I wasn't putting things off, things were just piling on as I worked. Peter Parker became Peter Stark, and this wouldn't have been such a big deal if it weren't for the fact I was already very well known when I was Peter Parker, you might have seen me on films or seen a billboard with my face and Peter Parker on it."

It was working with both Stark Industries and Oscorp, which confused people, but Peter made sure it was known that the Mockingbird Survivor Foundation, now MS Enterprises, worked for the benefit of others, not for its own benefit. 

"Last," Peter said, starting to pace again, "last, my ties. Everything changed. Before I was tied to SI, I had planned to work for my best friend's company, Oscorp. It was something, a goal, a certainty before it became a point, I would inherit the rival company of my best friend's father. The thing was..." he shook his head, "I was loyal slightly to this other company, because not only was it a company my family, my papa supported, but it was one my best friend was tied to. Now, there's this tension, as there has always been between these two multi-billion dollar companies. 

"I found out soon enough, some of the people I was raised to see as apart of my family or just raised alongside, are people who have they're own personal issues with my dad, and that some people my dad know have issues with people I was raised around. It's what it is, and I need to handle that in my own way." 

The company achieved great things, and soon, Peter was nominated for the prize and won. 

He was the youngest to ever win such a prize. 

This wasn't the main subject of the Ted-Talk, it was just the introduction. He proceeded to introduce the new technology he'd come up with which would help find people who stole the identities of young men, women, and children, to use in pornography videoes and pictures, in order to turn them over to the authorities. He'd teamed up with different companies, in a way where they would know that if they were hiring someone, the fact that they were one of these people who stole identities or harbored people to abuse sexually to make these videoes, they would know. 

This lead to Peter creating better renewable energy, sponsoring Climate Change activist groups and producing reusable, vegan supplies and food, which were inexpensive. 

Peter found a list of things in the one journal Teresa Peter though she had, where she wrote about the problems she would slowly figure out the answers to even though she died before she could start. 

Peter followed this list, these possible solutions, and soon, it was clear who would win. 

Peter accepted the prize. 

"Your dad must be so proud," a reporter said. 

Peter opened his mouth, "my dad is dead," he almost said, but instead, he smiled, then spoke, "I did it for the people, on behalf of my sister," 

... 

So that day, he got out of the limo and walked. 

The rain was tumbling down onto him, slowly soaking his suit, because Peter didn't bother with the umbrella. Happy got out of the car, using the umbrella to shield himself from the cold water. 

"Get in, your dad-" 

"I want cheeseburgers," Peter cut him off, walking away from him down the sidewalk to the open place Peter knew sold vegan hamburgers, "don't wait up," he said coyly. 

"It's getting dark," Happy said, jogging after him, holding the umbrella over both of them, "your dad hates it when you walk the streets alone. This man is Iron Man and Tony Stark. They've both got enemies if you're not careful-"

"I'm not going to live the rest of my life restricted just because my father used to be a douche," Peter laughed, pushing the door open. 

No, he was truly done with that shit. 

Happy sighed, truly seeing Tony in the boy who made him wait thirty minutes for a damn cheeseburger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I opened it to a tense scene.


	3. Secrets For The Angry

_Sunday_

Peter hadn't ever been more sobber than that week. 

So he had no excuse for what he'd done. 

... 

_That Monday_

He should have stayed in school.

Peter sat in a small cafe thinking about how he'd completely ditched an entire week of school, Harvard, just to go to a gala.

His chin was slammed onto the table as he stared vacantly at the cup of hot coffee he wanted to stick his hand in, just to feel some sort of relief from his thoughts. 

He hadn't even bothered to bring anything with him. Just the clothes on his back, his passport, and his wallet. 

Gwen has convinced him to come, told him he just needed some relief, some relaxing time, nothing more. Just an entire week without any work, and for a minute, he was okay with that. Then he boarded his plane, sat down, and realized he had nothing better to do than play with the zipper on his jacket. 

He didn't want to drink that week. Definitely not. But he ached for a martini glass. Some brandy. Maybe a mint julep. Definitely a classic cocktail. Even a smoke wouldn't be outdated for him. There were spare toothbrushes and some baking soda in the cabinet under the sink he could use to wash away the smell. 

Instead, he itched in his seat and thought about his thesis, unfinished and drafted on papers scattered in different cabinets in his desk due the next Friday, not that one, but the next, and the deadline seemed a lot closer than it had before. 

His phone was somewhere in his jacket which coincidently had too many pockets to count. He could feel the hard case swing front and back as he rocked in his chair, hitting his chest over and over. 

It made him relaxed, almost, the feeling. 

So he sat there, staring out the window, and tried to calm himself down. Damn, it had been such a long time since he was on a plane. 

Tokyo was many miles away and Peter knew that the sky was clear and sunny, but the thought of sleeping became a lot more appealing so he went to the side room, shielded from the rest of the plane a wall and door with a twin bed next to the window. He stripped down to his underwear and slipped under the covers.

... 

He was woken up by his alarm, which he'd forgotten he'd asked the flight attendant to set, and he dragged himself out of the bed. 

"Are you okay?" 

He looked up at the flight attendant, who was flushed a bright red and nodded. 

"Yeah, why?" he said, pulling on his clothes. 

She shook her head, frowning, "oh, no, it's just, you slept the entire flight." She said, "you must have been tired," she added then turned and left. 

Peter didn't know whether he should have been relieved about that or not. 

When he got dressed and stepped off the plane he was greeted by Koh Satoh, his friend. 

He was the son of a wealthy Japanese stockbroker his uncle used to know, and Peter knew with many background checks, was not apart of any Yakuza, just a regular rich stockbroker married to a Korean fashion icon. 

They had dinner in Seoul many years back when Peter had just taken in interest in acting and May took him to meet Mrs. Satoh, a well known Korean drama actor, when he was maybe ten or eleven and met Koh who had a strange liking for computer science. 

He was also the only other child of Mrs. and Mr. Satoh to know English wish was good for him back then when he hadn't yet perfected his Japanese or Korean. Actually, he didn't even know a pinch of Korean when he arrived. 

Koh was in his early young adult age, nineteen by now but he'd always been the most reckless of his siblings. Peter knew from the many online videos of Koh underage drinking and throwing up or humping some girl in parties held somewhere on Hiroshoma's Institute of Technology campus, videoes that didn't seem to bother him by then.

He was sporting regular Japanese fashion with a huge lopsided grin, one that made Peter slightly aroused and tight in his pants, a feeling he quickly shut down remembering Koh's immediate straightness, and he ran towards Peter holding his hand out for their handshake, a mix of clapping and pats on the back. 

"Man!" Koh said, loud and excited, "You know, no matter how much _Omma_ gushes about your growth, I'm still taller," Koh said, cockily, with his American accent, and you'd think he grew up there when you heard it. 

All Peter could do was smile, _wow_, he thought, _you sound more new yorker than me, and I've lived there my entire life_, he added. 

Koh grinned, "Woah," he said, stepping towards him, looking at him, up and down, then at the ground beside his feet "where are your things, Peter? I thought you don't like servants carrying things for you?" 

Peter nodded, uncomfortable with his use of words, scratching the back of his head and shrugging lamely before sticking his hands in his pocket, "oh, nothing, just thought I'd buy things here or something," 

Koh went wide-eyed and laughed, "shit, they were serious weren't they?" 

The car pulled up beside them and Koh's driver opened the two back doors. Peter's frows furrowed at the words as he followed Koh inside. 

"What do you mean 'they'?" he said and Koh sighed, rolling his eyes and slouching in his seat.

"Honestly," he said, "you don't hear it?" he gave an exasperated sigh, "gosh, it's nothing. Everyone just thinks your going through your midlife crisis and haven't stopped since 'The Reveal'" he laughed again, punching Peter lightly, reminding him of Harry. 

Peter rolled his eyes as well. 

"God, when is that going to wash over," 

"Probably never," Koh said, "you know that story is famous here in Japan?" 

"As famous as it is in America? Never" Peter said, annoyed. He took a drink from the side compartment and swallowed without thinking. 

Koh, already enlightened gasped, his eyes somehow growing wider, "_ah,_ Peter? You drink?" 

It's not like he didn't do it on purpose or that it was even done intentionally. Unconsciously he knew that Koh would probably be a very good drinking buddy for him since Peter considered Harry more of a mourning buddy than 'drinking for fun' buddy. 

He never drinks just for fun though. This week, he wasn't supposed to be drinking at all. He shrugged lamely again, "I have, when Ben was around, you know," Koh nodded. 

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, oh yeah, sorry about that by the way, and about Teresa, also May, that was really bad, _Papa's_ still not over it," 

Peter rolled his head on his shoulders, coughing, "yeah, okay," he said, "I was just thirsty, it's more like water to me now anyway," 

Koh shrugged, "so," he said, "anyway. People talk about it every year. It has it's own anniversary too, you know," he leaned in, "they're making a movie based off of it, a k-drama. " He spread his hands out, "Rich guy impregnates married woman, _past high school sweetheart- _" 

"-My mom and dad weren't high school sweethearts though-" Peter said matter of factly. 

"-married to the Rich guy's high school best friend from college-" Koh sighed.

"Far from it-" Peter groaned, leaning his chin on his palm. 

"- because the Rich guy never admitted he was in love with the woman. He just had sex with her in spite of her not choosing him years earlier and he turns her away when she tells him she's pregnant and regrets it later when he's made to keep a child of another affair-" 

"Ugh, I guess that's spot on-" 

"-and he has a change of heart, but can't do anything about it because his son is being happily raised by his mother and father until-" 

"Here we go-" Peter sighed. 

"-his parents die in a plane crash! Based on true events!" 

"I'm going to kill myself," Peter mumbled under his breathe, face in his hands. 

He heard Koh's laugher break out and his slap on the back. 

... 

He got to Koh's place in no peace of mind, genuinely distressed to find out that the movie production, and the freakin script, did exist and it did credit Peter for the idea of the film. 

At the same time, he was relieved that Korea had a different approach to the entire situation, finding the use of it for a film of all things.

The home was styled very differently from his own. It was minimalistic and Peter liked everything about it from the tatami floor to lamps hanging from the ceiling in round shapes like balloons. 

Koh motioned to the bed, "we can share, I mean, I'm not gay, but when someone's pressed up against me, little me won't tell the difference between girl ass and boy ass," Koh says jokingly. 

"Watch your words, I'm six years younger than you," he says, trying not to let out how offended he is, and Koh laughs. 

"Whatever." he says, "anyway, you can have the bed, or we can share if you want, if you don't want to, I'll take the mat beside the bed," 

"I think that'll be the best idea," Peter said. 

Koh shrugged and moved to set up a sleeping area. It wasn't dark yet, actually. It was just about three in the afternoon. He was only a little jet-lagged, but he'd gotten a long sleep in, so he wasn't bothered. 

"Are we just going to hang out here or are we going out?" Peter asked. 

"Umm, yeah we're going out," Koh said, " I mean, what are we gonna do here? You need clothes cause you won't fit into my clothes even if I let you borrow them, and I told my friends we'd meet up with them once I set everything up here" 

Peter wanted to gouge his eyes out and sow his ears shut. Of course, only Koh would force him into separate events apart from the gala that Wednesday. Why is he so surprised right then? He was a party animal and hated the indoors. 

"First we will go shopping _ya_?" Koh offered, "I mean, just for some clothes to take back with you, there's a different style here than American, no?" 

"I guess," Peter said, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom real quick though," 

Koh nodded, picking up his keys and tossing them in the air, "alright, I'll wait for you in the car and tell my friends we'll be going straight to the show instead, then we'll go to a bar nearby," 

"The show?" Peter asked. 

Koh only grinned and left. 

Peter didn't go to the restroom. He didn't need to then, instead he sat down and took out his phone, scrolling through it until he finally got the call he'd been expecting. 

The screen lit up with Gwen's name and Peter slid his finger across to answer it. 

"_I presume you had a safe flight?_" she said softly, and Peter smiled for real for the first time upon hearing her voice. 

"Correct," he said, tucking his other hand in his pocket, "yeah, I did, I'll get you some things from here, I know your size," 

She sighed on the other side, "_no, Peter you shouldn't, I just wanted to check up on you_," 

"Doesn't matter," he said, "it'll be like first grade again. I didn't get you anything for valentines cause I was busy, might as well get you something now," 

"_Do what you want_," she said, "_Message me first thing next morning, but I've got to go, I need to revise for a test._ _Say hi to Koh... Soka_?" 

He laughed, "Satoh," Peter corrected. 

She laughed, "_right, okay, bye then, love you_," 

"love you too," he said back and hung up. 

"여자 친구?" (Girlfriend?) 

His head snapped up at the voice of a woman and smiled little. 

"Aunty," he said, spreading his arms for a hug as the beautiful woman approached him. Koh's mom aged, yes, grey hairs in the mix with the black tied back into a french twist. She still looked stunning. 

"예, 안녕하세요. 맞습니까? 그 여자 친구가 당신과 이야기하고 있었습니까? 아니면 남자 친구?"(Yes, hello, but am I right? Was that a girlfriend you were talking to? Or boyfriend?) she said, pulling away, the smile still etched on her face. 

"여자 친구 - 즉, 여자 친구가 아닌 여자 친구입니다. 우리는 매우 가깝습니다,"(Yes, that's my Girlfriend-that is, female-friend, not a girlfriend. We are very close." he said. 

"the same girl you spent hours shopping for when you were seven?" she said in English with a very slight accent.

He turned away, "yes, her, sorry ma'am, it seems your son has gotten impatient already," 

Koh was honking and both of them laughed a little, very slight and soft and awkward but a good awkward. Peter was just relieved they'd avoided that talk. 

...

_Tuesday_

When the clock struck one as in 1:00a.m, it was officially Tuesday. 

The show was a runway show. Models of all kinds and Koh spent most of the party flirting amorously with them and they did flirt back, after all, he wasn't bad looking. 

Peter spent most of his time alone up until Tuesday, in some corners of the room sipping on nonalcoholic drinks, then he got pretty bored and walked around until he wandered into street markets. 

Stands sold a variety of things. He spent some, or most, of his time looking for books or notebooks. Something to keep him occupied and off of his thoughts. 

The food looked amazing. He tried something here and there before settling down inside a small restaurant where you had to kneel in front of a low table to eat noodles. 

So he knelt down and ate a plate of noodles and scribbled inside his notebook. 

He wanted to write something. 

Something valuable. A poem, an intro to a book he'd never write, a relic of a dream Richard snuffed out of him when he was smaller. 

Instead, he wrote down problems. Math problems. Scribbled out the answers randomly and dragged the pencil so hard over the letters and numbers and signs that the paper tore and he had to rip it out to save the rest of the notebook. 

Something he does is think, and Peter has never trusted himself to think before, but he tries then, to forget, as he thinks.

His mother could be alive, he thinks, he never saw his dad shoot her, just remembers the sound of the bullet, the sound of crying, and the everlasting memory of her mother taking her last breath. 

He reaches for his pen, clicks it vigorously as he tries to get his nerves under control, to no avail. 

Except, the idea can't be _nothing._

Thinking about it now, why wouldn't she, how couldn't she be alive? 

He doesn't even know what happened to her body.

A woman looks up from her cup of... tea? And right then and there, his pen breaks and it jabs a glass of water. 

The glass shatters and everyone turns to look at him. 

All he can do is stare at the glass. 

He realizes, suddenly, something very important. 

His hand is bleeding. A shard of glass bounced off the table and has by then cut him. It's small. He didn't even feel it. He can feel the eyes of others on him and that's all that really matters then. He realizes why it matters. 

"Okyakusama?" (Sir-?) A waiter says, walking up to him. 

"I'm fine," he says, in English, and the waiter, a woman, scrunches up her nose in confusion. 

Peter wants a drink, that's it. He wants a drink, he wants it now. Fishing for his pockets he drops som four hundred dollars in Japanese Yen. Looking at the woman, he realizes how young she is. It's really early, she's working a nightshift. God knows how much rent is. So he tosses in a thousand and calls it a day. 

Who was he kidding? 

When he says he doesn't care what people think, he doesn't mean everyone. He doesn't, but he does. He's afraid of... himself, the person he doesn't know, the kid who came out of the Parker Household and into the Stark and lost his way. 

Somewhere from stepping out of it in front of Stark Tower, he lost himself in the feeling of want. Wanting to fall back, out of step with the rest, to go back to the cemetery where he'd just buried his sister. 

His sister was dead, but Peter hadn't really taken that in yet as he was greeted by even more strangers, relaxing their hand on his shoulder, showing him the way to his new room. 

The sight of elegance wasn't new. It just wasn't his elegance. Nothing there was his, he wasn't living in a new home, he was living in someone else's home. They were doing him a favor, they were housing him in their marvelous home. 

So Peter sat down on his bed and he didn't cry. 

He cried then, in Japan. He hadn't cried in a long time, and that was fine. 

He cried because his hand didn't hurt, because there wouldn't be a scar there to prove anything had ever been done to him. 

He'd been the happiest kid in the world. 

No one could tell otherwise. 

But if everything that had ever been done to him could be shown on his skin then he'd be the ugliest bruise in the world. 

...

_Wednesday_

He never did get that drink. 

_..._

_Thursday _

Peter didn't even know what he was doing. 

All he remembered was taking a girl home, and she was so young, no better than Stephany because she knew who he was. She knew how old he was. 

And he wasn't drunk, so he couldn't blame his stupidity on that either. 

She was sober as well, maybe she should have stopped him too when he did what he did. 

The consequences were instant. 

He'd never cried so much in one night. 

At least they cried together. 

_..._

_Friday _

He... was so exhausted. 

...

_Saturday_

What- _What was he thinking? _

... 

_Saturday _

He snapped his eyes open where he lay back on his bed, the feeling of floating in the air within him even though he knew it's the plane that held him up. 

_You're no better than your dad. _

_Which one? _

_You only have one. _

* * *

_A Few Weeks Later _

Harley doesn't know a lot about Richard Parker. 

They were strangers to each other, they had never met, not in their entire lives and that was okay, Harley admired him anyway. 

Peter was kind and courageous and generous and everyone always said it was because his father taught him that. Everyone said Richard had raised him to be that way always, to always be kind and generous and so Harley only assumed that Richard was also kind and courageous and generous. 

When he found out he had a brother, he wondered where he came from and what kind of person he was. 

So Peter came into his life and he was perfect, times ten, better than Harley. 

It drags along with him everywhere, this fact, this reality, that once, Harley had been impressive, but now he was second place compared to the greatness of his brother. 

Not that he cared, he never liked the spotlight in the first place, had never wanted it directly placed on him.

Yet all he could do was_ wonder_, and _wonder_ and _wonder_. And it always came back to Richard Parker. 

When the anniversary of Richard Parker's death came around the corner and the memorial of all Richard, Mary, Teresa, May, and Ben Parker was announced Harley didn't need to ask about going. He jumped at the idea of going. In his deep consciousness, he hoped that something of his older brother's family would be on display for him to see. 

It's not that Harley didn't want to consider himself or his dad or his mom or even little Morgan was Peter's family. 

Sometimes it just came to a point where he forgot Peter was even family when all he did was talk business with his dad and look like he didn't want to be anywhere near them. 

But Harley wanted him to be. Because Peter always put effort into things. 

Because he came when Harley's mom asked him to and tried to make it through one dinner at least three times a month with them, which was enough to him. 

That's when he wanted them to be a family. He liked the idea of having an older brother coming home from college to visit them. 

Of course, he'd only stay for a few hours, sometimes one or two days. 

All Harley wanted to know was the people who raised him. 

So when the day of the memorial came a tailor went to the Tower to take measurements. The Avengers had been invited as well since they had spare time. In a few days, his dad would be going on another mission, somewhere in Sakovia, a place Harley had heard of in the news with their constant wars raging. 

Harley was putting on the suit when he saw his mother walk in, dressed elegantly in a blue cocktail dress. 

"Ready?" she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, pressing closely in an affectionate side hug. 

"Of course," he said, cockily and she rolled her eyes, pulling away and taking his hand leading him out of the kitchen to the lobby where everyone else was waiting. 

Pepper handed him off to Natasha and she sat with Tony in the second car, just the two of them, with another driver taking them. 

She leaned over and pulled up the wall between the Driver and them, before sitting back with a sigh, looking at her husband.

His eyes were cast towards the outside, his hands intertwined and fisted together, "I know you don't want to go," she said, pressing her hand lightly to his cheek. 

He tutted, "Of course I do," he said, smiling, turning to look at her. He leaned over, his eyes dark and entire demeanor pessimistic, "I just love to see what a failure of a father I was to my first child," he said, "It's the greatest motivation," 

Pepper glared at him, "look," she said, pulling away "this isn't about you, Tony. This is the day Peter found his dead dad, a dad he loved and had never known as anything other than his dad, bleeding out in his home. Whether you liked it or not, Peter loved this man and this man loved him," 

Tony sighed, "Fuck, I know that," 

She scoffed, "honestly, you bearly failed him, Tony," she said, very matter of factly, "he was very happy, was raised in a happy home, what more could you want for a child," 

"His mother was an addict," he mumbled, "you grow up with a mother like that, it's not exactly happy," 

She glanced down at her lap, "but he had Richard, he took care of both of them," 

Tony scoffed, "Richard fucking Parker," he said, to himself, looking away again, a sneer embedded deep in his expression. It was an ugly look that made her see red. 

Pepper glared at him, "can you stop being immature for once." she said, "can you stop? Honestly, be happy that Peter even labels you his dad-" 

"Not to my face- " he snapped.

"What did you expect? For him just to roll in calling you dad when he was raised by another one entirely," she said. 

"Stop shoving that in my face-" he said but she glared even harder. 

"The only one shoving that in your face is you," she said, finally. 

Tony stayed silent for the rest of the ride. 

... 

When they arrived, there were a variety of people there, all finely dressed, all very rich, all very important, depending on who you asked exactly. 

Many people were there for the Parkers, women, and men both who side-eyed Tony a lot, while others tried, as many people did, to flirt. 

Harley had departed from the rest of his family to look around, his hands in his pockets, his eyes drifted over all of the walls trying to catch something in his eyes. 

Soon enough he noticed people looking a little higher than he had. Many pictures and screens up were hanging up on the wall, the wall behind the stage holding the biggest screen of all. 

There was a photo of the entire family. Richard Parker and Ben parker standing up beside each other with stern looks on their faces, their wives close beside them, and Peter, who must have been three was holding a small newborn baby. 

It was a painting made by an anonymous artist. 

They were somewhere with a lot of nature, maybe in a backyard, all of them serious and richly dressed. 

Harley was reminded of rich families in movies, always dressed like they were going to a meeting, sitting for portraits, and living a dramedy of a life. Behind them, there was a huge landscape that made him think they were on a hill above the water. 

He himself had never been in any situation like that. On a daily basis, he dressed in sweats, jeans, and t-shirts that cost averagely. 

"_Son of a bitch_," 

Harley's ears perked up a little at the harsh words. 

"_Why is he even here?" _

_"Peter probably didn't have the heart to reject them or something." _

_"Has he no shame," _

_"He's raising him now isn't he?" _

_"Bearly," _

_"Peter might as well get_ _emancipated_,_ god," _

Somewhere behind him, there was a very wealthy group of middle-aged women, or so he assumed with how they dressed. 

His chest tightened when he realized they were talking about his dad and he looked back up at the portrait, a large, perfect portrait and thought of the man who stood the tallest and straightened, his eyes not forward like the rest but downcast to look at his son. 

Harley loved his dad. Up until he was told about his brother, he liked him a lot. 

Sometimes though, when Peter tried to get through dinner, and Tony would treat him like a business partner at the table, Harley thought about whether his dad really felt bad what he had done. It made him slightly off about his dad. 

He sighed and left the front to wander to some other places, before following another wall down the hallway where more paintings were hung up. 

> _A Normal Monday Morning_

Under the letter was a screen. 

A video was repeating over and over with transition. It was a video of Peter and his dad. 

Richard Parker was handsome, was all he couldn't deny. 

They were in a living room, he realized, and Harley realized it was being taken by Peter's Uncle. There wasn't any sound but there were subtitles. 

_'Say Hi To Uncle Ben Peter' _

Peter looked up from Richard's lap and waves, before pressing closer to his dad looking to the corner of the room. 

Harley squinted at his brother's expression.

"It was actually Tuesday that day," 

Harley whipped his head around. 

"Mrs..." he started then faded off. 

Stephany Westcott had gotten married, to who, he had already forgotten. The gold band glinted and he racked his brain to remember who. It was on a wedding invitation that Peter never replied to. 

"Call me Stephany," she said, quietly, leaning forward, her eyes fully on the painting, "It was Tuesday when they took this photo. They showed it to me before, but they thought Monday Morning would sound a lot better," 

Harley looked at her very closely. 

All he knew about Ben Parker was that he had been Peter's Uncle and Peter seemed to love him a lot. He'd overhear him and Harry Osborn talk about Ben, but sometimes it was because they were pointing out an actor that might have slept with him. 

That was none of his business anyway. 

But it had always bothered, and then it did too, because, right beside the screen was a large framed photo. 

> _Stay _

Was all it said. Stay. Ben Parker stared lovingly and admirably at May Parker who looked breathtaking in a white summer dress. 

Peter was also in the picture, but he was much older then, but he always looked older than he was so he didn't want to assume an age, and he was on the floor, propped up on his elbows, his neck twisted as he looked at something behind him. 

Who took the picture, Harley didn't know. 

Stephany Westcott might have just nobody. Harley could hardly believe that a man who looked at his wife that way would even look at another woman. 

"You were close to him," Harley asked, stepping closer to her. Her eyes held something different when he said that

"I didn't, maybe really liked, but not love, because soon after, I just stopped," she said without worry, turning to look at him, "a lot of people did," 

"But he was married," he said, "did he really reciprocate?" 

She nodded, her face still and pale. 

"Not in the way I wanted at the time," she said, "he really loved his wife," 

Harley made a face, slightly judgemental "If he did then he wouldn't have ever-" 

"You didn't know them," she said, quickly, "even if they look like that in the pictures, they're a terrible family and incredible liars." she leaned forward, her voice lowered "and just because Peter isn't blood doesn't mean he wasn't exactly like them," 

"Harley!" 

Stephany looked behind them. 

Pepper Potts stood there and beckoned Harley over, her gaze drifting from him to Stephany. 

Stephany stepped away and walked. 

Pepper walked towards her son, standing still and staring after the young woman walking away quickly, as quick as she could in heels as tall as that. 

She placed her hand on his shoulder and he finally turned his head to look at her. 

"Is something wrong?" she said. 

Her son blinked and shook his head, a weak smile appearing on his face, following by an annoyed frown. 

"Nothing," he said, looking up at her, "she's just not over the fact she didn't mean enough to Ben when he died," 

Pepper smiled sadly, "Love makes you angry sometimes, especially unrequited love," 

Harley nodded and hoped, deep down, that was true. 

... 

Except, he couldn't get what she said out of his head. 

Something stirred inside of him. 

When Peter walked onto the stage, dressed finely in a very expensive suite he looks to his right at Stephany, who, previously had been very calm, but was now upright in her seat, staring intensely at him. 

All he could do was look at them. 

Peter looked straight at her twice. Something in his face Harley couldn't identify. 

He looked at the walls around them. 

There were so many paintings. 

They looked perfect. 

When they hired an artist they hired someone good. 

Everything in the room was perfect. 

Like a set out of a movie. 

When he looked back at Stephany he noticed, with a horrifying jolt, what the look in her eye was. 

It was amorous. 

Peter looked at her again, but he was angry. 

For the first time in his life, Harley saw hate in his brother's eyes. 

He realized that Peter was still talking. His voice was soft and kind and smooth and calm even with the dangerous look. His posture as perfect. His face was perfect. Everything was perfect. 

Something, Harley knew, _was seriously wrong with him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, fuck, please, please, inform me if in one way or another I disrespected someone with the Korean-Japanese name. I've no experience in writing Asian characters, I just knew I wanted one in the story, not long term anyway. I really should've never gone into a field I have no idea of. But I'm going in with this a little.


	4. The Red Flags Ignored Are The Worst Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: Peter is thirteen everyone in order for everything to work out, leave out the logic for that part of the story okay, logic does not matter when it comes to Peter's age. 
> 
> Also, I was planning on writing a one-shot of Mary Parker and her life, like an extra chapter, but I've decided to write it once I'm done with The Lonely City.
> 
> To add to that, I've read back on all of my works and- why haven't I gotten any "too many grammar mistakes, wordplay is kind of rushed over too much" comments, because Love And War needs to be re-written and when I'm done with the series I might just rewrite it again.
> 
> Reminder, the timeline is different than the normal one.

_April 3_

"What happened there?"

The lights were growing dimmer and the night was stretching across the sky. Guests were decreasing slowly. 

Harley pointed upwards. 

At the very back of Peter's throat, he felt something swell which was a sign he might have to go somewhere private to dump something from his stomach, but maybe it was a burp. 

The point was, he didn't want to open his mouth, he didn't even want to move, he wanted to stay in place for once and even imagined himself never moving from that spot again. After a few days, due to his metabolism, he'd starve and die and at the moment that seemed so much better than using his voice. 

Peter turned away and hallowed his cheeks before filling them with air, his lips sealed tightly as he tried not to just vomit. 

Where Harley's finger pointed towards was a picture of him staring straight into the camera, his features contorted into disgust. 

He looked away from where he was pointing in time to see his brother turn back towards him with an amused smile and Harley remembered doing something similar when he was a child and his dad first took him to an aquarium. He knew nothing at all and constantly asked questions. 

Harley could really see how Peter would look when he was grown up and his own child asked him for guidance. 

Peter put his hands in his pockets and leaned forward, furrowing his brow and keeping on his soft smile.

"My aunt was a lot of things but a cook wasn't one of them," he pointed at the corner where a blur moved, "she turned away right on time for everyone else to see me-" he clears his throat and Harley's eyes him but Peter just continues, "throw up-" 

To Harley, it looked like he was acting or something, making fun of himself in the photo, but all Peter knew was he was trained to last longer than the hour and a half he'd been answering Harley's varying questions. 

He can try and imagine that being true, the lie about the photo he means. 

As clear as the sun when his eyes are open and he stands right under it, every little detail of the story behind that photo is embedded in his brain. 

Peter wraps his arm around Harley and pulls him close to his side. He's unbelievably light so Harley wouldn't notice it but the only reason Peter is balanced is that he's leaning on him, most of his weight is being carried on Harley now. 

Harley wraps his arm around Peter's waist because he likes being pressed against his brother, but it's such a relief to Peter when he does that. 

May wasn't a good cook, that part was true, but he'd liked the way she burned things, and he liked the taste of ash on his tongue, he doesn't understand why, but it's true. 

Sometimes, when he knows Jessica isn't home, he tends to eat things that remind him of May's food. He'll burn steak and rice and cookies and stuff them in his mouth very slowly like he did whenever she put something in front of him. 

He was only a child then. 

All he wishes is to have an accidentally burnt cookie because he tends to overly burn them into coal blocks or perfectly burn them like smores and it gets annoying to him when the taste just isn't right on the spot. 

Not that May every burns them on purpose. She was just a very clumsy person who pattered a lot of things just to survive her trips and skips and forgetfulness. 

What happened in that photo had nothing to do with her either. 

All he can think about, enough that won't make him vomit on his brother's very very expensive tux, is the smell of gunfire and the body falling and the smell of blood reaching his nose as he was about to bite into May's delectably overcooked lasagna. 

Eight years old Peter was too unfazed by it. 

...

_"Do you have to do that when I'm eating?"_

...

"_Clean that up before Teresa gets home_,"

...

That's who he was at some point. 

Tony sipped very carefully on the glass of scotch overlooking everyone else in the large photo, for that moment, to stare head-on at his own kid.

Peter was... way to impressive for a five-year-old to stand that straight and that stern, he reminded Tony of himself whenever he had to do that with his father. 

Not that Tony was ever stern, not at that age, and you wouldn't put him in a suit like that as hard as you tried, he just wouldn't wear it, but Peter stood willingly wearing burgundy and his hair a neat mess. 

The rest of the people in the picture were people Tony had never met, not including the only other woman in that photo. 

Even the sight of her made him feel ashamed. 

May Parker wasn't even facing the camera, she was standing sideways holding a small baby girl in a blue dress, the youngest Parker in the photo, Tony thinks in his head, the little girl who he failed to save like many others only over a year ago. 

She's sweet looking, he thinks, but he also sees his little girl staring back at him. 

Completely zoned out is a woman he bearly remembers anything about since he blacked out the night they did what they did and he never saw her again after that. 

Apparently, she left. 

Those were the rumors. Richard Parker must have been heartbroken about it because he covered her tracks completely but from many files, Tony found snooping around, he'd spent millions looking for her up until death. 

He completely overlooked the clear evidence of her death when a body was found in Harlem, one that clearly identified as her. 

Tony tilted his head looking at her. 

Brown hair with blonde streaks, the top part of her hair pulled back to reveal her perfectly symmetrical face and her bright beautiful green eyes that were staring back at him. 

_Did she leave? _

It felt unbelievable. 

Right next to her, looking down at her with an expression of perfect... love, desire? Perfect something, perfect meaning, was her husband, this incredible man who... who gave her child his last name and raised him for five years, this rich, handsome, kind man, and _she left? _

How stupid could she be? 

Peter must have suffered because of her, Tony thought, Peter who was so small and so clueless when his mother left one day and overdosed in some alleyway never to be seen alive by him again.

He can imagine Peter having to be sat down by Richard, he could imagine him being placed on the larger man's lap, maybe his uncle was there with his wife, maybe they tried to cheer him up by buying him gifts or taking him on a trip like he heard they did when Richard passed away. 

Tony knew he hated Richard, why, he didn't want to explain that. 

But he knew other than his ego being damaged by the image of Richard Parker's selfless acts over the years, there was literally no good reason to hate this man. 

And he wanted to hate Mary Parker, but after really thinking about it, they weren't much alike for him to hate her. What she lacked was stability. What he lacked was maturity. 

And she was really beautiful. 

Maybe that's why she got away with all of it. 

Maybe that's why Richard really looked at her that way. 

Either he loved her or just really felt bad for her. 

Both would make sense from what he heard made up the man's character. 

Then if that was true he probably only kept Peter because he felt bad. 

Tony swallowed the rest of his drink and felt better at the thought.

* * *

_April 4_

When Peter woke up, he didn't know where he was, or he did, he just couldn't remember. 

It really took a long time to remember. 

The moment his eyes opened he didn't even comprehend the idea of moving his eyes to look around or to even move. He just woke up and stared at nothing, his body stuck in the same position tucked away between a staircase and the wall. 

Weirdly, he didn't comprehend the idea of doing anything for a very long time. 

And that hadn't happened in a very long time if he really remembered every time clearly. 

If he ever woke up with the mere _idea _of staying bed he usually left it as nothing but that, an idea. Ideas could be put off for a long time, but sometimes they came back to you. 

Peter really didn't want to stay there on the ground the entire day though. 

His bones actually creaked as he stood up, and his throat was dry like sand that hasn't been touched by anything but the sun for years and he looked around to try and find something to flood the feeling out. 

His vision was blurry, but he could make out more walls and realized pretty quickly he was in a building and he'd been sleeping under stairs. His suit was slightly wrinkled because of the way he squeezed himself into that space, his limbs had been all over the place, and anyone walking by would have seen how obscene it was. 

He'd have to call the manager of the building and send forms to sign for privacy reasons. He didn't like the idea of him being seen this way getting out there. 

Inside his pocket was a card, a room card. 

The lobby was dimly lit and it was raining so some people were coming in and checking into hotels, maybe to avoid the rain or walking in the night or getting into a taxi, maybe some were just having issues. 

It wasn't impossible. 

He went there because he was having issues. 

What surprised him, not that he was responsible or anything and could trust himself at the end of the day, was that he went to a hotel that wasn't the best of the best. 

It's just- he grew up rich. And he's used to being rich. He's been taught to survive in every situation, but when he goes into his room, he runs his finger over the desk propped against the window and it comes back with heavy dust. 

All he can think about then is getting the place shut down because the bedsheets probably haven't been changed in a long time and there must be things in the bathroom- he watched a Korean movie and- a girl got an std from using a towel on her parts. 

Peter knows it must be sometime in the morning, he also knows he would be immune to diseases if he ever came across one, but he likes the idea of being human and having the ability to die in the same situations like everyone else. 

So he finds the nearest store, a Korean owned one and tries just to be calm about it. 

"Don't think about it," he said, the entire plane ride home, the entire night before, the entire time he held her hand in the clinic, "it won't matter now or later," 

He buys bed sheets. 

Cleaning supplies are the major thing in the store, and Peter recognizes the brands from his time in Korea. In the back there's stationary. 

He knows there are piles of unused notebooks, the same notebooks, maybe twelve copies, somewhere in his room. He knows exams will be coming up soon, and he knows he'll have to give them away when he transfers to California. 

He's really busy, and he's majoring in other things now, he knows he won't get special treatment at any of his schools. 

And majors are okay, he has like ten projects for each of his majors every month, and like ten reports for each of his projects as well. 

Peter is practicing his instruments again, his violin and guitar and piano have been taken to the apartment, and sometimes he practices. 

He could write down music notes and fill up those notebooks with drafts for reports or essays, his thesis needs to be turned in soon, he can note things down in those notebooks. 

But when he gets back to the hotel, he's got some more notebooks, the same kind, fourteen copies of them, and he knows there's something wrong with him. 

He took one book, checked it out, got a receipt, and went back for another. 

Peter knows how to do basic things. He knows how to clean, he can clean, just not well. 

And he knows he's one of those many parasites to society, rich and almost brainless, or just with no common sense, with a lot of money to throw away, and not the same consequences as normal people. 

He can't... get rid of every child molester in the world, even though, as Spiderman, he tries to get rid of the ones around him, and some people are really good at hiding it, and some just had wrongly received consent, so it's hard now and of course, he's busy. 

And before Peter wondered where he threw up, because of the night before he really thought he would throw up, but he realized he really never threw up, which seemed impossible because by then his system just should have healed right? 

But the toilet seat seems like a really comfortable place to put his face between all of a sudden. 

And as he throws up, he thinks about children and he thinks about monsters, and he thinks about how he never really cared about what bad things were happening to other people until he realized something bad happened to him. 

Somehow, he can fix it. 

Millions of dollars inherited, a spotless, (almost spotless) background, he can totally take someone as imperfect and pathetic as his Uncle's former partner, because it'll help a whole lot of people aside from him. 

He's no idea how many others there are. 

Except, Peter's not picking up the phone. 

And he's not calling a lawyer. 

He isn't doing anything. 

What if she hires someone too? 

People do that, even when they're caught, they get away with things by digging up stuff. 

What if she tells the world it's because his uncle made her do it? 

What if his assumptions were wrong and she only touched him, not anyone else, so he couldn't use anything against her.

And what if she finds out something else, through friends, through the business she'd entered as a model. 

He's over it too, in the end. 

He lays on the bed and ponders that. 

Of course, he's over it. 

... 

Peter decides to give himself a vasectomy.

...

_April 10 _

Peter only half knows what he's doing. 

Getting a vasectomy done on him meant he wouldn't have sperm in his semen for the next 3.5 years because his enhanced body remade itself so he would have to have one done again. 

And he didn't know why he was having a vasectomy, he didn't have sex all that often and he'd never done it that sober- _except for that night-_but it just happened, and he didn't want to make a decision like that again. 

So he goes home as soon as he can when he knows he won't fuck anything up in his mindset. 

Jessica isn't home. 

He thinks she must be pretty calm by then, with one major and an assortment of other little classes and lectures for her to attend. 

He knows her schedule. It's extremely difficult to compare them to each other since hers isn't and has never been as long as his. 

Throughout the weak, she has some classes and lectures focusing on her major, film, with the last days of the week being the time she attends separate classes. She's an undergraduate. 

Peter, on the other hand, went to a STEM school that offered a program to work for a Ph.D. in the time it takes for a normal university student cut in half but twice as hard work. He isn't an undergraduate, and he doesn't have a commitment to one thing. His schedule starts from nine in the morning to midnight, six days out of the week. 

The point is to pass the exams and turn the assignments in on time. 

It's seven a.m, and if he looks back on every other day clearly, this is one of the only habits she commits to. Waking up at seven to watch an episode of a Netflix show and review notes. 

"Huh," he thinks. 

This feels a little wrong.

...

Peter doesn't dwell on that too much though. 

* * *

There aren't a lot of things Harley can do that aren't disprespectful. 

Harley knows Peter went through a lot, he knows he lost a lot, and that whether or not he was a different person before he went through that pain shouldn't matter to him, because the person he was then was more important. 

Like his father, who'd been a lot worse before he became a parent, and still a bad person afterward, until he became a hostage and then something in his mind turned around and he decided to become a superhero. 

But Harley never considered Peter would be someone else. He'd always been kind. Right? 

From the day he'd been born, he'd been strong, he'd been smart, and he'd been confident from a young age. 

There were no different concepts that could even come to mind, but he'd been so astonished and perplexed when he'd seen his brother up on the stage at the memorial. He'd never seen Peter so irate at the sight of another being. 

It was like seeing a completely different side of him, one he hadn't even seen the day he first came home, or the days after when he'd wake up early morning every day and have to look at their dad. 

There were moments where Harley was sure Peter had to hate their dad. Father's day, their father's birthday, Peter's birthday, the days that had anything to do with a father being there. 

But Peter would just smile and their father would sigh in relief because ignoring the day was better than approaching it. 

It only felt like they still weren't family. 

On Peter's birthday, a few days before the year before, he went to stay with his friend Harry Osborn, just because he missed him, but they all knew the real reason. 

So on the days that Harley's father left on missions, ones that were dangerous, Harley tried not to see it as them admitting that he might not come back, and he'd also try not to see it as Peter not caring whether he came back or not. 

Because it didn't matter, because Peter had every right to wish that.

Harley never thought of it that way before. He thought it was because they'd rather ignore that idea, that Peter should care, and that Tony might feel entitled to Peter caring. 

Now, because of that look, because of what Stephany Westcott had told him, because of the fact that no matter how many times he told himself that his mother was right, she was just upset over unrequited love, he still thought Peter might hate their dad, that he might be lying about the fact he didn't. 

And the fact that he had every right to didn't matter when the fact met up with the person Harley thought Peter was. 

He shouldn't do anything. 

Whatever happened between Stephany and Peter was none of his business, and everything that could have happened was right in front of him: Peter must have felt sorry for his aunt when his uncle cheated on her with Mrs. Westcott, and Stephany Westcott was trying to stir up a lie of her own. 

So many famous women were rumored to have slept with Ben Parker, they'd come across every one of them at galas and parties and events, Peter never even looked their way. 

But that just made it seem like Peter didn't care, because if that was it if it was resentment towards the women his Uncle cheated on his Aunt with, why didn't he look at those other women the way he looked at Stephany? Why could he joke about it? 

So was Peter just brushing them off except for when they nagged him?

Harley couldn't accept it when he hugged his dad and Peter wasn't there to hug him as well, or to even say goodbye, and the idea he probably wasn't even thinking about him made Harley slightly angry. 

Peter would come by the tower at the end of the month for the monthly scheduled one-hour dinner then leave. 

Harley would watch him walk away, Peter would take out his phone and press it to his ear, and he'd start jogging without looking back, just looking at the watch on his wrist, and he never let himself think it was because he thought the time spent with them was a waste of time. 

So Harley needed to know. 

What did Stephany Westcott do to Peter to ruin the image of him that Harley had in his mind? 

That barrier Harley always told himself to understand didn't matter anymore. 

He crossed the line when he went to Peter's apartment without even telling him beforehand. 


	6. Author's Note

This isn't a note saying I'm going to stop writing. 

In fact, I'm going to be writing a lot for a very long time. First off, to look back through everything, I've inconsistently updated to multiple stories on this site for the past year and a half. Pressure and boredom pushed me to write without plotting, because of this, everything I write is unpredictable. 

When I posted my first story it was a set in a different fandom and on a different site. It's not that the fandom was less popular but instead the characters I liked to focus on were background characters and sometimes the background characters were popular, but because I didn't know how to write romance, especially with commonly depicted couple stereotypes and with other characters that were already commonly paired with them in OC. 

Then I entered the Marvel fandom and Spiderman became my favorite and luckily for me, he was a lot of other people's favorites as well, so I wrote I Can Fall with little to no plan beyond the first and second chapter because I'm neither a good or smart writer. 

Looking back, I made too many wrong turns, changed the plot in every turning point and then if I didn't like it, I covered it up with poor excuses in the characters and I would leave a huge plot hole or change the characters completely from what I'd wanted them to be. 

So the plan is: I'm going back to re-edit my stories. 

I'll keep the stories up to be read and re-write the stories on my documents. I already upset a few readers when I deleted one of my works, for now, that's the plan, I'll update as soon as I can. 


End file.
